


House/Wilson Drabbles

by dreamsofspike



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-21 13:04:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 112
Words: 27,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9550367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsofspike/pseuds/dreamsofspike
Summary: A collection of my drabbles for the pairing House/Wilson, with a bit of side House/Wilson/LucasWarnings: dark, violence, child abuse, emotional abuse, attempted suicide, dub-con, non-con, BDSM, dom/sub, ignoring of safewords/limits, character death, domestic violence, threesome





	1. Ends

**He’s heard it said that the ends justify the means.**

**Wilson knows he has no choice about what he’s about to do.**

**But will _House_ know that?**

**Hating himself for what he’s about to do to save his friend, Wilson walks into Tritter’s office.**

**“I’m going to need thirty pieces of silver.”**

**Tritter smiles – and inside, Wilson cringes.**

**He’s betraying House to save him – revealing his secret to protect it from the world – taking House’s freedom, temporarily, to preserve his career, and what’s left of his precarious reputation.**

**Wilson hates himself for doing this – knows that he always will – but he’ll do it, to save House from himself.**

**All he can do is try to believe that it will be worth it in the end.**


	2. Hours/Days/Weeks/Months/Years

**Hours**

****House/Wilson FS** **

****100 Words** **

**His eyes open to a sight he hadn’t expected.**

**He’s there, across the room, watching him.**

**_I’m sorry… so sorry…please forgive me…_ **

**Words echo through his mind, words he could say, should say – can’t say.**

**Wilson stares at him, hurt, betrayal and anguished grief burning in his dark eyes, glittering with tears. Perhaps those eyes catch the slight motion of House’s lips, the beginnings of apology he can’t quite form – because then, Wilson turns and walks away.**

**For how long, House doesn’t know, but there’s still a chance – still hope.**

**After all – it’s only been hours since he lost her.**

****Days** **

****House/Wilson FS** **

****150 Words** **

**Cuddy’s said he can go home, but only if he  lets her send a nurse with him.**

**House thinks it’s worth it, just to escape. He can’t stand another awkward visit, another well-intentioned word from someone pretending to care – when the only person he wants to see refuses to come near him.**

**Every now and then he glimpses Wilson through the glass, passing on his way to somewhere else – certainly not there – his eyes averted, walking quickly, disappearing from House’s sight as swiftly as possible. Those rare glimpses are all he sees of Wilson anymore.**

**House never takes his eyes from those glass walls.**

**Now, all that’s left to do is go home – and hope that eventually, when Wilson gets tired of the company of his own loss, he’ll make his way to House’s door.**

**All he needs is a little more time.**

**It’s only been a few short days.**

****Weeks** **

****House/Wilson FS** **

****100 Words** **

**The nurse’s last day was yesterday.**

**His first day back is another week away.**

**House wakes up to an empty apartment – and only one person fills his thoughts.**

**Wilson hasn’t been to see him since before she died.**

**House called him a couple of times, right after leaving the hospital. The first time, the call went to voicemail. The second, Wilson picked up – and then hung up without saying a word.**

**From that moment, everything else ceased to matter. Because in that moment, House _knew_.**

**It’s been weeks now, and House can feel himself fading.**

**Weeks – since he lost him.**

****

****Months** **

****House/Wilson FS** **

****150 Words** **

**House does his job – but no more.**

**The jokes at the expense of his staff, the pleasure he once took in the mystery – both have been lost in the midst of his grief. He still saves lives on a regular basis, but secretly, he’s sure a couple were lost that he might not have lost, had he been able to discuss his ideas with Wilson, as before.**

**Wilson grieves for the dead; House grieves for the barely living.**

**The mere thought of his name is enough to make House’s stomach drop, his heart aching with loss.**

**When he hears his door swing open, and turns to tell the intruder to leave – a new kind of ache finds its way in.**

**He’s actually there, meeting House’s eyes with his own gaze full of regret…tenderness…**

**Forgiveness.**

**He can still remember the last time Wilson was willingly within his sight.**

**It’s been months.**

****Years** **

****House/Wilson FS** **

****125 Words** **

**A day rarely passes when she doesn’t cross one of their minds – if not both.**

**Wilson still misses her – and House can’t forget the profound effect she had on his life.**

**Her loss almost cost him the best friend he ever had.**

**It started off slow – a stilted conversation here, an awkward attempt at a joke there. Then one Friday night, Wilson just…showed up. It wasn’t easy at first, but gradually became easier.**

**Forgiveness was not a magic word that fixed them overnight. It was a gradual process that quietly happened between them, until one day, both looked back, and neither could remember when exactly it reached its fulfillment.**

**All they knew was that years had passed – years, since they had found each other again.**


	3. Beginning of the End

The beginning of the end starts with three words.

 

Wilson’s always cared about House’s feelings, although House pretends not to have any. Wilson chooses his words, his actions, to prevent any further damage to his friend’s already injured psyche.

 

But House refuses to apologize or back down, even when it might cost him everything – might cost _Wilson_ everything.

 

Wilson stares at him…and the look becomes hard, disgusted.

 

“God, you’re pathetic.”

 

And Wilson walks away, without a second glance at House.

 

And the words hurt – because Wilson means them.

 

And they hurt even worse – because Wilson doesn’t care that they hurt.


	4. Cigarette Burns

When he walks into House’s apartment to see him grinning at him around his cigarette, so pleased with his narrow escape, Wilson seethes with resentful anger. It’s just another reminder of House’s deception.

 

None of it was real.

 

The rehab, the apology – all lies.

 

House gives him an odd look as Wilson starts purposefully toward him, and Wilson remembers seeing him across the rehab lounge, how stunned he was to see House smoking…how he let it go without comment, because House deserved a little leeway for trying _so hard_ …

 

_He wasn’t trying at all… it was all an act._

_And the cigarette – the cigarette was a secret joke for House alone to get – a subtle slap in the face while he spouted meaningless words…just to screw with me._

House raises his eyebrows, speculative, mockingly lifting the cigarette to his lips again as Wilson closes the distance between them. He isn’t expecting it, isn’t prepared when Wilson plucks the cigarette from between his fingers with one hand, the other snatching his right wrist off his cane and jerking him forward, off balance.

 

House leans backward against the wall, readjusting to stay on his feet, defiant eyes laughing at Wilson, daring him to give vent to the fury on his face.

 

The last thing he expects is for Wilson to crush the lit tip of the cigarette against his palm. Wilson ignores his yelp of protest and pain, forcing his hand shut around the smoldering embers, holding it shut and allowing the burn to linger.

 

“Smoking in front of an oncologist, House,” Wilson murmurs with a cool smile. “Now that’s just insulting.”

 

House struggles to pull his fist away, a guttural groan escaping his lips, but Wilson doesn’t yield, and his smile doesn’t change.

 

“Don’t you know those things can kill you?”


	5. Silence

Against House, Wilson finds that silence is a far more effective weapon than words.

 

He has yelled, berated, lectured, hands flailing wildly and right up in House’s face – and the older man just laughs it off. He expects Wilson to get frustrated, angry even – expects him to lose his temper and tell him how badly he’s screwed things up this time.

 

And then, he expects him to get over it and buy his lunch and hang out in his office as always.

 

He doesn’t expect to be ignored.

 

“Pizza tonight?”

 

Wilson doesn’t look up, just keeps writing.

 

“I _said…Pizza? Tonight_?” Each word is slow and exaggerated, as if Wilson might be deaf.

 

Wilson still says nothing.

 

Irritated, House slams the door and walks away.

 

When he stops by later to rant about Cuddy’s latest veto decision, he reaches the end of the rant before realizing that Wilson isn’t rationalizing, or justifying her decision, or lecturing him on why she’s right.

 

Wilson’s just… ignoring him.

 

Again.

 

“I get it.” House points a knowing finger. “The silent treatment’s not gonna work on me, Jimmy. You’re gonna have to get over it and stop pouting like a little girl, because I’m _not_ going to apologize.”

 

Except that Jimmy doesn’t stop, the silent treatment continues – and at the end of the day as he’s about to walk out the door of his office, he is stopped by a penitent House, looking at him through anxious, uncertain pools of glittering blue.

 

“Okay,” he mutters, looking down, feet shuffling against the tile like a little boy kicking the dirt. “I’m sorry, okay? Will you stop acting like an idiot now?”

 

A single raised eyebrow, a brief moment of dubious eye contact – the first contact he’s given House all day, and it’s not the least bit reassuring.

 

“I’m _sorry_ ,” House repeats, his tone less sullen, more pleading.

 

When Wilson touches his shoulder, House looks up, biting the inside of his lip, unaware that the desperation he feels shows so clearly in his eyes. Wilson smiles at him, dark eyes filling with warmth again.

 

“I’ll buy the pizza.”


	6. Drowning

Wilson’s stomach drops as he rushes across the room to House’s side.

 

Relief… he’s breathing… conscious. Hopefully, most of the ingested poison is lying on the floor beside him. Wilson picks up the empty pill bottle – sees the betrayal his friend has committed.

 

He feels sick.

 

He can’t stay.

 

If House is sick again, he could drown. Wilson knows he shouldn’t leave him.

 

But he’s just so tired, so freaking _tired_ of dragging House, flailing, sputtering, barely breathing, out of the water, only to have him leap in head-long again.

 

 _Go ahead, House…_ He stares down in disgusted disappointment, and the bottle falls from his hand. _Drown, then. I’m tired of trying to save someone who doesn’t want to be saved…_

 

Defeated, Wilson walks away.


	7. Expectations

He knew the words crossed a line – and he expected there to be repercussions.

 

He expected Wilson to turn and coldly walk away, too furious to trust himself to speak.

 

He expected perhaps a scathing retort, vicious words designed to hurt House like House’s words had hurt.

 

He did not expect Wilson to snatch the cane from his hand in a blind rage, slam it into his stomach, again and again. The last thing he expected was for Wilson to bring it down hard into the fragile spot on his right thigh, simultaneously covering House’s mouth with his hand to suppress the expected cry of agony.

 

Wilson moves in close – menacing, purposeful – and House flinches as a hard hand fists his hair, pulling him closer. Blinded by pain, House can’t see him, can only feel the words as a harsh, echoing whisper in his ear, just before Wilson roughly releases him.

 

“ _If you ever mention him again, I’ll kill you_.”

 

And Wilson stalks away, leaving House to his deserved suffering, his own ill-fated words echoing in his ears.

 

“ _If you lectured_ him _this much, no wonder your brother wanted to disappear_ …”

 

After those words, what had he expected, after all?


	8. Flames

All House can do is watch the flames.

 

Flames of flickering orange and red and chocolate brown dance in Wilson’s dark, glittering eyes as he stares into the fire, idly stirring the glowing embers with the heavy iron poker in his hand.

 

All House can do is watch, because he’s chained to the bed by the fire, unable to rise.

 

Wilson smiles at him, and there’s something both reassuring, and terribly frightening, in the familiarity of that warm, knowing smile.

 

All House can do is watch, because he can’t speak – not around the gag Wilson’s fastened into his mouth.

 

He had no idea what Wilson intended when he arranged for this quiet weekend in the Poconos – just the two of them. He supposes it’s his own fault, for giving him the idea – but this is not exactly the sort of scene he expected Wilson to set up.

 

Wilson withdraws the poker from the flame, holding up the glowing red tip before his eyes, then turning those dark, fathomless eyes, burning with lust and anger and a thousand indiscernible emotions, toward House again in a chilling expression of darkly suggestive intent.

 

All House can do is watch…watch, as the flames burn.


	9. Refusal

“No.”

 

“Come on. You know you want it as much as I do…”

 

That low voice, soft and smooth and tempting as melted chocolate in his ear, entices him. The image he can’t erase, of that same mouth – smiling, whispering teasing words in Amber’s ear, outside the cafeteria that morning – seals his refusal.

 

“Not your dirty little secret, Jimmy…” House mutters, the words breaking off in a gasp, his body responding in treacherous pleasure.

 

“Don’t be silly, House.” Warm, dark eyes, so deceptively innocent, meet his before Wilson pushes him into the closet, pulling the door behind them and shutting out the light. “Of course you are.”

 

House wants to deny it… knows it wouldn’t matter. His protests, his refusals, his insistence on dignity and respect – none of them matter.

 

Wilson bites down on his ear, a little less than gently, and hisses cruelly teasing demands for agreement.

 

“ _Aren’t you_?”

 

House feels a little sick inside, but surrenders, murmuring a strangled, distracted, “Yes… _God_ , yes…”

 

Because it’s true. In the dark or in the light, willingly or by force, he’s Wilson’s, body and soul.

 

And because he has a feeling that tonight – Wilson wouldn’t take no for an answer anyway.


	10. Disaster

It’s all fallen apart.

 

Again.

 

He kept the pretty mask in place as long as he could…until, finally, it slipped. Eventually, it always grows too heavy and cumbersome, and eventually, he always lets it slip.

 

That’s when they decide that the real James Wilson, the man behind the pretty mask, is not what they signed on for.

 

That’s when they leave.

 

It’s a disaster he can’t escape – tragic history repeating itself again and again.

 

In the storm’s wake, there’s only one person he can go to – one person who can remind him that there are worse disasters than his own.


	11. Obsession

He has to leave, to escape House’s destructive influence in his life.

 

He refuses to speak to him, look at him, before he goes, to avoid giving him the chance to talk him out of going.

 

He’s two weeks settled into his new position when it starts to affect his job performance.

 

He checks PPTH’s website for articles referencing him – watches Princeton area newspapers for signs of his latest scandal. He sends casual emails to his fellows, random phone calls to Cuddy, hoping for a spare word to hint at how he’s doing.

 

Recovering? Functioning? _Alive_?

 

He doesn’t allow himself to ask – but he has to _know_.

 

Despite his intentions to leave PPTH and never think of House again, once he’s left, Wilson finds that he can think of little else.

 

One thousand miles away, and Wilson’s obsession makes House’s influence in his life more destructive than it ever was.


	12. Crash

It was a crash that ruined everything.

 

In a single moment, Wilson’s entire world, everything that mattered to him, destroyed.

 

He tells himself that it wasn’t House’s fault. House couldn’t have known that Amber would answer his call – couldn’t have known that she would follow him onto that bus – couldn’t have known that the bus would crash.

 

He plays the supportive friend throughout House’s recovery, doing what he can to help,  showing what he thinks is an appropriate level of concern – because he knows that’s what he _should_ do, what he _should_ feel.

 

The first time House rides his motorcycle to work again, after weeks of physical and occupational therapy, it is a cause for congratulation. Wilson is all smiles and encouragement, as he nods farewell in response to House’s tentative smile. The older man is clearly seeking his approval, and on the surface, Wilson grants it – because he knows it’s what he’s supposed to do.

 

And as House’s motorcycle pulls away from the curb and into the traffic – secretly, Wilson wishes for another crash.


	13. Holding On

“What do you think she _really_ wants?”

 

House turns to look down at Wilson, lounging idly on his sofa. “This hot, sexy bod, of course. What else?” There’s a smirk on House’s lips, but Wilson can see the insecurity behind his eyes.

 

“Well, I don’t know. It just seems like… Do you really think you’re… her type?”

 

“How should I know what her _type_ is?” House turns away toward the refrigerator, examining the carefully chosen corsage again.

 

“But… you _do_ know what her type is,” Wilson responds at last, slowly, thoughtfully, as if the realization is only just dawning on him. He waits until House meets his eyes to finish, “Damaged.”

 

House stares at him for a long moment, and Wilson can see the disappointment seeping into his expression, replacing the cautious interest that was there only moments before. He knows that House is disappointed, not because he holds any interest in Cameron, specifically. He’s disappointed because the idea of being wanted, by a woman so attractive, so much younger, was infinitely flattering, encouraging.

 

Wilson doesn’t want House flattered – doesn’t want him encouraged.

 

Wilson wants House aware that in the end – there is no one for him – no one but Wilson.

 

Wilson knows that in the end, he’ll always be alone. There’ll be another Mrs. Wilson, but she’ll probably leave in the end, too. As constants go in his life, there’s only House – and he needs to make sure that he’s the only constant in House’s life as well.

 

It may be cruel, may be all kinds of wrong – but Wilson doesn’t feel guilty.

 

All he’s doing is holding on for dear life to the only thing he has left.


	14. Instant

House is barely in the door before Wilson’s all over him, clearly in the most amorous of moods. Wilson pushes him against the wall beside the door, sliding his coat off his shoulders, his lips smiling against House’s mouth, leaving it only long enough to mutter,

 

“So how was it?”

 

House smirks back at him, meeting his eyes in a challenge. “Good. It was fun.”

 

Wilson raises a brow as he tosses coat and scarf onto the sofa and starts to work on House’s shirt with frantic, trembling fingers. “‘Fun’?” he echoes. “How was _she_ ‘fun’?”

 

He’s still smiling, so House thinks he’s still okay. “You know,” he shrugs, kissing Wilson again, reversing their positions before pulling away to continue in a sly, teasing voice, “She’s quite the little hottie. Beautiful, in fact. But…”

 

Before he can continue, in an instant, everything changes.

 

Wilson reverses their positions again, slamming House into the wall with brutal force. Stunned, House opens his mouth to protest, but Wilson’s fist tangled in his hair slams his head back – dizzying, painful.

 

“Beautiful, is she?” he snarls, dark eyes blazing with jealous fury. “What did you do with her? Did you kiss her? Is she a good kisser, House? Did you sleep with her? Did you sleep with her like a freakin’ _slut_?”

 

House shakes his head, lips parted, desperately seeking a chance to explain himself – but Wilson won’t stop. Wilson’s fist slams into House’s bad leg, driving the air from his lungs and the explanation from his lips.

 

“She’s beautiful, but _what_ , House?” he demands. “What else were you gonna say about the stunning, amazing Dr. Cameron? She’s beautiful, _but_ …?”

 

“But she’s _not you_!” House grinds out the words – trembling, angry, reproachful… hurt. “She’s not you, you – you _bastard_!”

 

Again, everything changes in an instant, as Wilson backs off, stunned to silence.

 

Jealous fury shifts to contrition.

 

As House goes down to the floor, curling protectively over his injured leg, Wilson goes down beside him, remorseful tears already streaking his face.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry, House… I’m so sorry…”

 

House has heard it all before, knows better than to trust it. He knows that it _will_ happen again, despite Wilson’s promises that it won’t. Wilson’s moods are like the wind, instantly shifting without warning.

 

Wilson’s crying now, his face resting on House’s knees, clasping the older man’s hands in his own, sobbing out pleas for forgiveness, begging him please, _please, don’t go_ …

 

House knows he won’t ever leave.

 

He knows that for the chance to love and be loved by Wilson, he’ll ride the constant storm of Wilson’s moods. There’s nothing Wilson can dish out that he can’t bear – for an instant.


	15. Wax

They sit on the sofa.

 

House watches the television – only pretending to pay attention.

 

Wilson doesn’t bother to pretend.

 

He holds a candle in his hand, slowly turning it, watching as the tiny flame melts areas of the wax it couldn’t otherwise reach, deftly tilting the jar to catch a pool of molten wax in the corner where the candle meets the glass.

 

“So… how many times did a staff member of yours cry today?”

 

House considers the question, exaggerating his answer. “Twice.”

 

“And… how many times would you say you tormented Cuddy?”

 

This answer needs no exaggeration. “Seven.”

 

“Illegal medical procedures performed?”

 

House looks skyward, mouth quirking sideways as he counts. “Two.”

 

“And… you got away with all of it?”

 

House’s mouth goes dry at the dark softness of Wilson’s voice, his chocolate eyes focused intently on the jar in his hands as the wax melts, the pool growing larger. House can’t find words to speak, so he just nods, giving Wilson what he hopes passes for a smirk.

 

Wilson shakes his head once as he meets House’s eyes.

 

“No, you didn’t,” he corrects, nodding toward House’s bedroom, his voice hardening, though there’s laughter in his eyes. “Get in there. Clothes off. Facedown.”

 

House shouldn’t be eager to comply – but he is. His hand trembles on the handle of his cane as he passes Wilson, who hasn’t yet bothered to get up.

 

Wilson finally follows, his pace unhurried, behind him, still slowly swirling the melting candle in his hand.


	16. Confession

“You know that new nurse in emergency?”

 

Wilson’s voice is casual, one arm wrapped gently around House’s bare shoulders, House’s face resting against his chest. As he speaks, Wilson idly runs his fingers through House’s hair, damp and disheveled from their coupling.

 

A mere grunt is House’s response. He’s not really interested.

 

He’s about to be.

 

“She came onto me this afternoon.”

 

Wilson feels House’s smile against his skin – feels the trust there, trust he’s spent the last few years building – only to shatter in this moment.

 

“Did you tell her you’re taken?” House responds, the words light and unconcerned, muffled against Wilson’s chest.

 

Wilson is quiet for a moment. “I slept with her.”

 

House laughs, not believing it to be more than a joke…and to Wilson, the sound is like shattering glass. When the older man raises mirthful eyes to meet Wilson’s solemn, dark gaze – everything freezes. Wilson waits – waits for House to hit him, to scream at him, to get up and walk out and leave him for good.

 

House does none of those things.

 

After a moment, House whispers a response – and the fear and hurt and need mingled in those words is an ironic relief to Wilson, because he knows it means that in spite of his offense, in spite of House’s hurt and the trust Wilson has broken – he’s not going to be left alone.

 

“Are you… going to do it again?”

 

Wilson knows that he will. He knows he can’t change, not even for House, whom he loves more than he loved any of his wives. He’s an unfaithful bastard, in the same way that he’s a brunette oncologist. It’s a state both natural and achieved, but not a state that can be undone at this point in his life.

 

And yet… House is the one afraid of being left behind.

 

“No, of course not,” Wilson whispers, leaning down to kiss House in tender reassurance.

 

He knows this isn’t over, knows they’ll have it out, and probably in the next few minutes.

 

He also knows, no matter what he does… he’ll never be alone.


	17. Memory

Any other day, House wouldn’t bother to knock.

 

Today, he does, and waits for the cool, professional, “Come in,” before opening the door.

 

Wilson glances up at him, and in the brief instant before he realizes who it is that’s in his doorway, House catches a glimpse of the Wilson he knew before all this – before Amber. For a moment, he thinks he’ll see that slight softening in those dark eyes, that trace of humor and pleasure that Wilson used to feel when he saw House at his door.

 

But that’s just a memory, not the reality of this agonizing moment.

 

A single glance, and House is returned to the brutal present.

 

Wilson’s eyes are hard as he snaps, “What are you doing here, House?”


	18. Thunder

“Is she better than me?”

 

Wilson’s voice is a low, dangerous growl, the vibrations like rumbling thunder against House’s throat as they’re followed with kisses, trailing downward.

 

House’s hands strain against the ties that hold them to the headboard, only succeeding in tightening them further. Another is bound around his eyes, so he jumps, startled, when Wilson’s voice is suddenly in his ear again.

 

“Who’s your favorite? Me or her?” Wilson demands, talented hands trailing over House’s body as he writhes beneath the younger man’s touch.

 

And there’s only one answer he can give.

 

“You, Jimmy… Of course it’s you…”


	19. Glasses

For once, House is actually trying to study, a pensive frown on his face, reading glasses in place as he pores over a medical journal he hasn’t looked at in years.

 

Wilson is having none of it.

 

He reaches for the journal, but House pulls it out of his reach, his deepening frown the only indication that he’s even noticing Wilson’s attempts to distract him. Wilson kneels on the couch beside him, one hand sliding around the side of his neck and drawing him closer as he kisses House’s throat.

 

“Not now,” House growls at last in irritation, batting Wilson away with one hand. “’M busy.” He places the journal on the coffee table, leaning forward, pulling out of Wilson’s reach.

 

Wilson rocks back on his knees for a moment, mild exasperation on his face. Then, without warning, he reaches out and snatches the glasses off House’s face. House turns toward him, reaching for them, but Wilson twists the fragile metal frames in his hand, turning out of House’s reach and dropping the glasses to the floor, before dropping his foot after them and crushing the glass beneath the sole of his shoe.

 

House stares in silence at the mess on the floor for a long moment before looking up at Wilson in outrage.

 

“I _need_ those, you moron!”

 

Wilson grabs the journal off the table and tosses it across the room before lunging forward, grasping House’s wrists and pinning them against the back of the couch as he pushes him backward and captures his mouth in an insistent, searching kiss. He pulls back, a little breathless, as he responds cheekily.

 

“Not tonight, you don’t.”


	20. Hopeless

When Wilson touches him…House feels sick.

 

He can feel that glow he gets – that glow that should be only for House. He can still smell her perfume on him, before he even turns around. He knows Wilson’s been unfaithful, even if Wilson will never know that he knows.

 

House hasn’t quite decided yet.

 

They’re alone on the roof, and it’s quiet and peaceful – a beautiful night.

 

A night for romance.

 

Wilson’s already had more than his share – yet he comes here, claiming what he knows is already his.

 

After the initial kiss – which tastes faintly of fruit-flavored lip gloss – Wilson draws back, giving House a warm, tender smile that should be only for him.

 

But it isn’t.

 

“No one will ever love you like I love you,” he whispers.

 

He means it quite differently than House hears it. House hears it for the painful truth it really is – and suddenly he knows that he won’t mention the taste, the scent, the remnants of the _other_ he can still see all over Wilson’s face.

 

For Wilson, there’ll be anyone he wants.

 

For House, there will never be anyone but Wilson.

 

Hopelessly lost, House surrenders to the next kiss without a word.


	21. Mirror

Sometimes he can’t stand to look at him – can’t stand to see how alike they really are.

 

Wilson tells House he shouldn’t be so manipulative, shouldn’t play his staff, Cuddy, his patients, like he does.

 

The only one Wilson manipulates is House.

 

Wilson endlessly lectures, trying to make House see how miserable he is, and how it doesn’t have to be that way.

 

But Wilson isn’t happy.

 

House’s addiction is slowly killing him, and Wilson warns him almost daily.

 

Wilson’s only addiction is House.

 

Still… looking at House is like staring into a mirror, and sometimes… Wilson can’t stand it.


	22. Sway

Wilson knows he’s the only one who holds any sway over anything House does.

 

He’d never express such an arrogant idea to Cuddy, or his staff, or anyone else at PPTH – never say out loud that he has any control over the uncontrollable force of nature that is Dr. Gregory House. And he’d never, _never_ say such a thing to House himself. That would be a sure-fire way to immediately lose all such control over House. If he knew, House couldn’t tolerate it.

 

No, Wilson likes his secret position of power too much to let it slip away so easily.


	23. At the End

House is at the end of his rope. He’s broken out in a cold sweat, eyes red and welling with desperate, frustrated tears. If he could go down on his knees, and get up again, Wilson is quite sure that he would.

 

“I’m in _pain_ , Wilson. Just write me the script. _Please_.”

 

“Cuddy won’t. Your team won’t. And now you think _I’m_ going to enable you? After… _everything_?”

 

“I think you can’t stand to see me in this much pain, knowing you’re the one who caused it.”

 

Wilson stares at him, anger and resentment seething behind his eyes. They’re in the hall outside his office… no one else around… no one to suspect…

 

A dark idea occurs to him – no idea where it comes from – but it’s there now, and it’s strangely appealing. House is at the point of begging, desperation – willing to do _anything_.

 

How could Wilson _not_ take advantage of that?

 

He leads House into his office with a firm hand on his arm, then leans against his desk, arms across his chest, speculative. House waits, watching him anxiously, unsure of the game, of himself, of anything besides his own pain and desperate need.

 

“You want the pills?”

 

House gives him a disbelieving look – no words necessary.

 

Wilson’s smile fades. “On your knees.”

 

House’s jaw drops, eyes wide as he looks over the younger man’s casually authoritative stance, one hand resting idly over the front of his pants. There’s lust in Wilson’s eyes – lust for House, but also lust for power, vindication.

 

House knows that if he goes to his knees, he won’t get up the same.

 

“If I do this… you’ll write the script?”

 

Wilson nods in calm, expectant silence.

 

There’s only a moment’s hesitation before House falls to his knees.

 

It’s over in a minute; before this moment, House had no idea how much Wilson craved his submission. He doesn’t move, head bowed, eyes averted as Wilson leans over him, one hand cupping the back of his head, moving gently through his hair.

 

“Your addiction’s not a problem?” he asks in a voice of soft, sad irony. “The pills don’t rule your life? Look what they’ve turned you into.” He pauses a moment before adding, “Take the deal, House. Go to rehab.”

 

Wilson walks away, without writing the promised script – leaving House there on his knees, hanging on to the frayed edges of his shattered hope.


	24. Confusion

He awakens to an overwhelming feeling of confusion.

 

He can’t remember how he got here – can’t remember where “here” is. Doesn’t know why he can’t move his hands or feet, or speak… or see anything at all. He struggles to open his eyes, but it’s no good. He tries to say something, to see if he’s alone or not… but the best he can do is a muffled moan.

 

It’s enough to gain response, to show he’s not alone – wherever he is. Confusion fades into clarity at the soft voice that whispers into his ear, warm breath sending a shiver down his spine…

 

“I was beginning to think you’d sleep the day away…”

 

…and he remembers.

 

_A tiny pinprick of pain, the world swirling away into darkness, as strong arms catch him from behind…_

His captor’s next words send a delicious shiver down his spine.

 

“So, House… ready to play?”


	25. Tremble

Every muscle is rigid, waiting for the inevitable touch of his hand.

 

He’s been ordered not to turn around, or look – so he doesn’t.

 

Warm, soft fingers trail across the back of his neck, under his loosened collar, sliding down and around to touch his chest, before slipping back upward to lock firmly around his throat, pulling his head back, just barely restricting his breathing.

 

“You’ve had this coming a long time,” a soft voice, enticing and menacing in the same breath, whispers against his ear.

 

His breath catches in his throat, and he waits, breathless and trembling with anticipation.


	26. Blank Stare

Convincing Cuddy was easy.

 

Who better to care for the one-time genius, now near-vegetable that was Gregory House, than his best friend?

 

Amber was gone; Wilson’s need to be needed would be well-served by House’s need for care.

 

It made sense.

 

She didn’t know that House had already recovered much of his mentality – or would have, had Wilson allowed it. Near-constant intravenous drugs kept him sedated, pliable – until Wilson wanted him otherwise.

 

The moment when that blank stare became knowing, aware – of what he’d done, and what was being done to him – was the sweetest moment of Wilson’s every day.


	27. Trapped

“She’s such a brave girl. I want to see how brave she is when you tell her she’s going to die.”

 

The words are barely out of House’s mouth when they’re replaced by Wilson’s fist. The blow sends him staggering backward into the wall; he tastes blood, flashes of color obscuring his vision. When he can see again, Wilson is startlingly close, a cold, furious smile on his face, House’s dropped and forgotten cane clutched in white-knuckled hands.

 

“Wanna repeat that for me, House?” Wilson’s voice is soft, cold as his dark, narrowed eyes.

 

Trapped between Wilson and the wall, House knows that he’s crossed the line, and for the first time in as long as he’s known him, he’s actually afraid of his friend.


	28. Ice

House loves their games – loves surrendering control to Wilson, though he’d never admit it outside these four walls. He’s bound, blindfolded, allowed only his voice in defense against the younger, stronger man, who mercilessly plays his body like a finely tuned instrument, striking chords of mingled pleasure and pain.

 

Every touch a new thrill, each sensation magnified by the absence of sight.

 

“Let’s try something new,” Wilson whispers.

 

House shivers as something cold and wet trails along the line of his hip. He wriggles away from it and toward it at once, enjoying the new sensation.

 

At first.

 

Sensory memory overcomes reality, and House’s blinded eyes are filled with nightmare images from his past. It’s too cold, too terrifying, too _much_ …

 

“Stop,” he gasps. “No…stop…”

 

“Shhh,” Wilson soothes him.

 

House can’t see the secret smile on Wilson’s face, has no idea that this game was chosen with House’s halting, shame-filled midnight confessions in mind. Wilson enjoys the thrill of power as House struggles uselessly to escape the ice trailing over his overheated, trembling flesh. His heart races under Wilson’s hand on his chest, and Wilson’s pulse quickens as well.

 

“Please,” House whimpers. “Please, stop…”

 

Wilson has no intention of stopping.


	29. Flirtation/Innocent/Jealousy

**Flirtation**  

 

 

It’s just a casual brush against his arm, a smile that’s slightly warmer than usual. Still, he knows she’s attracted to him – always has been – and he can’t deny that he feels some of it, too. It’s nice to have someone look at him like that again – like he’s funny, interesting, worthy of a little bit of extra attention.

 

Wilson’s eyes are always cold these days. When House feels his gaze, turns to meet his eyes from across the room, they’re colder than ever.

 

House’s stomach drops. He recognizes the danger in those dark eyes, sees the jealous rage in Wilson’s taut carriage, in the tightly clenched fists at his sides.

 

He knows there’ll be a high price to pay later for this innocent flirtation. 

 

 

**Innocent**

 

 

“It didn’t mean anything!” he insists, breathless, his back aching from slamming into the wall of Wilson’s office. “We were just talking! It was completely innocent.”

 

A vicious slap across his face drives his head back into the wall, dizzying him, and he grimaces at the knowledge that he’ll have to explain the bruises tomorrow.

 

It hardly matters; Cuddy already suspects.

 

“Liar!” Wilson hisses, grabbing his throat, choking him as he presses him back against the wall, his face inches from House’s. “Lying. _Slut_.”

 

House knows better than to argue. It will do no good. Wilson’s already sure he’s guilty.

 

 

**Jealousy**

 

 

By the time she follows her instincts to Wilson’s office, it’s all over.

 

It’s too late.

 

Tears stream down Cuddy’s face as she kneels beside him, feeling for a pulse she already knows she won’t find. She’s worked here long enough to recognize death when she sees it. He’s so fragile, defenseless, lying there broken and alone.

 

Wilson fled, no doubt, when he realized what he’d done – that this time, he’d finally gone too far.

 

She’d seen the evidence of his jealousy – knew he couldn’t stand to see House with anyone else, even if he was only “with” them in Wilson’s imagination.

 

 _It’s my fault… for touching him… for not doing anything when I_ knew _what was happening… He’d still be alive if it wasn’t for me…_

Her tears streak his still face as her body bows over him, going through the motions, trying to save him – trying too late.


	30. Forgotten

Wilson says he’s forgiven – but things are not the same.

 

He acts the part of a friend, all smiles, jokes and easy camaraderie on the outside – but it’s the little things that remind him everything has changed.

 

A glance in his direction when her name is mentioned – a barely perceptible coolness behind eyes of warm chocolate – a look of irritation where before, there might have been amusement.

 

It’s all too clear that things between them have changed, so much, for the worse.

 

House may have been forgiven, but Wilson makes it constantly clear – what he’s done will never be forgotten.


	31. Photograph

“Don’t go.”

 

He doesn’t expect it to do any good, but he asks one more time, anyway.

 

Wilson gives him a cold, disbelieving smile, shaking his head in wonder at House’s nerve to even ask, as he continues emptying the last drawer of his desk into a box.

 

“I’m sorry, but not as sorry as you’ll be later when you realize what a mistake you’ve made.”

 

“Oh,” Wilson speaks at last, his voice painfully casual as he opens the bottom drawer of his desk. “That reminds me.”

 

He picks up his box under one arm, dropping the item he took from the drawer at House’s feet as he stops in the doorway. The shattering sound it makes is loud in the stillness of the room, but Wilson’s nearly whispered words are louder, reverberating in House’s head with the pounding of his pulse as he stares numbly down at the mess on the floor.

 

A broken frame, a rare photograph of the two of them, laughing together – overlaid now with shattered glass.

 

“I won’t be needing that anymore.” Wilson shrugs, stepping over the mess as he walks out of the office that’s no longer his – and the friendship he no longer wants – leaving its wreckage on the floor at House’s feet.

 

A single tear falls to slide over the glass and onto the photograph beneath it.


	32. Handcuffs

“You said I _could_ be silent, not that I _have_ to.”

 

“Shut up!” Wilson snarls, backhanding the other man across the face, knocking him from his knees to his side on the floor. The handcuffs keep his hands behind his back, so he can’t catch himself, can’t keep his face from impacting painfully with the tile. “You’ll keep your mouth shut as long as I tell you to.”

 

 _That’s gonna leave a mark,_ House thinks with a grimace, but doesn’t dare say aloud.

 

He knows it’s just a game, but he can’t help the way his heart races at the feeling of helplessness – the memories that flood his mind of another night, another man who handcuffed him, and the terror he felt then, the fear he felt in the back of Tritter’s car, fear that he would never make it to the police station at all.

 

He puts on a defiant face, argues back when he knows Wilson expects it – giving him something to play off, so that his lover will enjoy the game – but this particular game is never good for him.

 

It doesn’t matter, though. Handcuffed or not, House is at Wilson’s mercy. All Wilson has to do is ask, and he knows he’ll give in, whether he wants to play or not. He knows Wilson could have anyone he wanted – and if House can’t give him what he wants, he’ll certainly find it elsewhere.

 

And if that happened – House couldn’t bear it.

 

Secretly, Wilson knows this, and that – that power to make House do _anything_ – that’s what makes the game good for Wilson.

 

The handcuffs are real, purchased at a pawn shop – not the cheap plastic he might have found at a sex store.

 

Unbreakable.

 

Like Wilson’s hold over House.

 

And that’s the way he likes it.


	33. Lost

When House awakens after the seizure… he’s not the same.

 

There’s recognition in his eyes when he sees Cuddy, his team, and finally Wilson – but speech comes with difficulty, and he seems confused when they speak to him. His broken mind can’t quite make the words make sense.

 

He remembers, though.

 

Wilson knows, the moment he looks into pleading blue eyes that well with tears at the sight of him. House struggles for words, looking like a lost child, heartbreakingly vulnerable.

 

He would say he was sorry… if he could remember the words.

 

Wilson tells him it’s all right, soothes him with gentleness and affection… in the presence of the others. All he’s doing is biding his time, though, until he can get his former friend alone. When the others leave, Wilson sits at House’s bedside, reaching out to take his hands, looking him straight in the eye, making sure he has his full attention before he speaks in a soft, gentle voice laced with quiet malice.

 

“I hate you, House,” he informs him with a cold smile. “I’ll always hate you. You’re _nothing_ to me. You deserve this, and worse. I wish you’d died instead of her.”

 

House looks confused, uncertain, as he tries to put the words together.

 

He’s never looked so lost as he does in the moment when he finally does.


	34. Broken

It’s a nightly challenge between them – for Wilson to try to break him, with pleasure and pain and everything in between. House grins at him defiantly, readily taking everything he has to give, without losing control, without giving Wilson the victory he craves.

 

One place is off limits – always has been.

 

But one night, Wilson breaks the rules – when they aren’t even playing.

 

As daring fingers trace the outline of the gaping, puckered scar on House’s leg, House’s arrogant defiance is swallowed up by tense apprehension. “What’re you doing?” he gasps, uselessly trying to pull away, held in place by soft yet unyielding bonds. “Don’t!”

 

Wilson gives him a wink and a secretive smile as he lowers himself down the bed, gently caressing the part of House’s body he’s most ashamed of. House struggles in earnest now, desperate to escape the focused attention of his lover on the part of him he says as least sexy, least deserving of such tenderness.

 

“Don’t,” House pleads, his voice almost a sob. “Don’t, don’t, please…”

 

“Shh,” Wilson whispers. “Trust me… It’s all right…”

 

House jerks away from his touch – not physically painful, but emotionally devastating. “Please,” he whimpers, imploring. “Please…”

 

“It’s all right,” Wilson gently insists. “House… I _love_ you. _All_ of you. You’re… beautiful to me… and that means _this_ is beautiful, too…”

 

If it was anyone else, House wouldn’t believe it.

 

But it’s Wilson, and he knows it’s the truth – not because Wilson never lies, but because House always knows when he does.

 

Wilson meant for tonight to be different – not a night for games, but a night for tenderness.

 

And it’s tenderness that finally won the game – finally broke the unbreakable.

 

But he never thought that breaking House would break him, too.

 

Remorse fills Wilson for hurts he really didn’t cause. Tears streak his face as he unties House and gently cradles him in his arms, murmurs reassuring words, and they lie there – broken together.


	35. Damaged

Wilson has always known that House was damaged.

 

Anyone who’s known the man for five minutes knows that much.

 

However, one night when Cuddy shows them an old homemade video – the three of them and so many others at some more-fun-than-usual hospital function, five years ago – Wilson begins to notice subtle differences between the man he once knew, and the man House is now.

 

Disturbing differences.

 

He already walked with the limp, already had that sadness in his expressive eyes – but House also had a certain… ease, back then… was more… relaxed, somehow.

 

 _Is it possible that House was actually more confident back then? Stronger?_ Happier _, even?_

_Is it possible that he was_ better off _before he knew me?_

Wilson’s spent so much time lecturing, criticizing, doing his best to fix the damaged parts of House, that he’s managed to convince the man that he’s more damaged than he actually is.

 

It hurts Wilson to look at House, and see, among the wreckage of physical and emotional injuries, the damaged places he put there himself.


	36. Heartsick

This one was never a mystery.

 

He knew the diagnosis as soon as he started feeling the symptoms.

 

He was following Wilson toward his office, and they had just rounded a corner into a hallway that happened to be deserted at the moment. He had just tried to apologize, for the seventeenth time since awakening in that hospital room, when it happened.

 

Apparently seventeen times was one time too many for Wilson.

 

Wilson whirled on him, gripping his collar and slamming him against the wall beside his door, dark eyes narrowed and warning as he leaned in close.

 

“Don’t you get it?” he snarled. “I don’t _care_ if you’re _sorry_! It doesn’t matter! She is _dead_ because of you – and you’re not worth it. Any useless words you try to say – anything you try to do to make up for it – your entire _life_ – can’t ever make it right. You should have died, but _she_ did instead. And that’s something I can _never_ forgive!”

 

That was the moment of onset – and the moment of diagnosis.

 

And the moment when House knew there was only one cure.

 

As he sits on the sofa, holding the razorblade against his wrist, staring down at it in dreadful anticipation, he’s heartsick – but he knows in a few short moments, he won’t be sick anymore.

 

He won’t be _anything_ anymore.


	37. Leather and Lace

**Leather**

 

It’s the night after the fateful poker game, and House expected to spend it alone.

 

He didn’t expect the polite, quiet knock at his door – or Wilson’s less-polite entrance, pushing his way in without asking for permission and shoving him down onto the couch without explanation.

 

And he definitely didn’t expect Wilson to stand over him, glaring, as he whipped his belt free from the beltloops of his pants, smooth brown leather snapping against fabric in a machine-gun staccato sound that causes his stomach to drop.

 

He’s heard that sound before, many times – but he tries not to think of those times now.

 

And from the dark, determined expression on Wilson’s face, it looks as if the trouble of the moment is more than enough to consider.

 

“Did you really think I’d let you just humiliate me in front of all those people? Did you think I’d let you just _get away_ with it? Well, if you’re determined to _act_ like a child, then I’m going to _treat_ you like a child!”

 

House doesn’t bother to mention that “all those people” will probably never again think of Dr. James Wilson, as long as they live; he’s just not that important to them – not as important as he thinks he is.

 

No, that would likely only make things worse.

 

“My relationship with Grace is none of your business – and it’s certainly none of theirs,” Wilson snarls as he brings the belt down hard across House’s face, then again across his damaged thigh.

 

Again and again it falls, and House, who wasn’t expecting the _first_ blow to actually fall, is too stunned to defend himself – hasn’t time to, anyway. When he’s finished, Wilson’s panting, having exerted himself more than he intended. He crouches beside House, who flinches away from him, his body curled defensively around his most vulnerable part. Tense, anticipating further violence, House is unusually silent, unaware that he’s holding his breath.

 

Wilson’s gentle touch against his cheek is in sharp contrast with his previous actions, as he muses softly, “Let’s see if you do any better at keeping _this_ secret.”

 

 

**Lace**

 

House sits on the lid of the toilet in his bathroom, unusually subdued as Wilson works over the injuries he inflicted only minutes before. Wilson is bandaging a place just above his right eye, where the belt struck hard enough to break the skin.

 

A layer of gauze falls over House’s eye for a moment, and before Wilson can gently press it back in place, fastening it there with medical tape – House catches a glimpse of his friend through the gauze. It’s like looking at him through a veil of lace… all the hardness and anger of moments earlier melted away into a softened haze.

 

And then his vision is clear again, and he can see the warning in Wilson’s eyes, contrasting with the softness of his voice and his hands as he gently patches up the damage he’s wrought.

 

“I wish you wouldn’t make me do things like this, House. I hate hurting you.”

 

House looks away, conflicted and confused. He’s angry at Wilson, but the tone of his voice makes House feel guilty – like it’s his fault.

 

_Maybe it is._

 

“I’m sorry,” he answers softly.

 

Wilson’s fingers caress through his hair as he finishes the bandage, and his features soften into an indulgent, affectionate smile. “It’s all right. We won’t let it happen again, will we?”

 

House shakes his head, not knowing how else to respond. He feels numb, hardly able to believe the events of the evening have actually happened. As he glances uncertainly up at Wilson, now quietly putting away the left-over first aid supplies, he sees him in a new light.

 

He’s a man of confusing contrasts.

 

House has watched him go from calm, to brutal, to compassionate and tender, all in the space of an hour’s time.

 

Frighteningly soft… beautifully dangerous…

 

Leather and lace.


	38. Tie

These hospital benefit events are always boring – but tonight, House is anything but bored. He watches from a darkened doorway across the room, unable to suppress his jealousy.

 

Since she’s realized she hasn’t a chance with House, Cameron’s taken to flirting with Wilson – who looks amazing tonight, dressed all in black, and utterly in his element. As Cameron reaches to adjust Wilson’s tie, which wasn’t askew in the first place, House represses the urge to limp over there and physically remove her hands – from Wilson, and maybe even from _her_ if she doesn’t stop.

 

His mind returns to the night before, when Wilson made more interesting use of that tie he’s wearing, and several others. House’s wrists, ankles, mouth, eyes – among other things – bound in silk, while Wilson had his expert way with him.

 

He knows Cameron’s doing it to make him jealous, and he knows Wilson isn’t interested in her.

 

He keeps telling himself those things as he turns away in disgust, unable to watch anymore.

 

He draws in a sharp, startled breath when he feels a strong hand slide possessively around his waist, feels a soft kiss on the nape of his neck. The low, seductive sound of Wilson’s voice in his ear drives all thoughts of anything else from his mind.

 

“Wonder if she’d be so eager to touch my tie… if she knew where it’s been…”

 

Despite his arousal, House can’t help but laugh quietly as he turns around to face Wilson, a smug sparkle in his eyes. “Maybe she’d be _more_ eager,” he points out.

 

Then they’re laughing together… and then their laughter is muffled by a kiss… and then, Wilson closes the door, shutting them into the dark with only each other, and the benefit, Cameron, everything but the two of them is forgotten.


	39. Scars

Everyone knows House is scarred.

 

The enormous scar on his leg defines who he is, though he keeps it hidden from the eyes of the world.

 

But there are other scars, hidden much deeper – scars no one suspects he bears.

 

There’s the criss-cross pattern that marks his back, from the time his father went a little too far in punishing him for a lewd comment about a woman who walked by on the street.

 

There’s the smaller mark on the inside of his wrist, where his hand was held to the glowing red stove coil, to teach him not to talk back – a lesson which clearly didn’t take.

 

And there are other scars, ones no one knows exist at all, from the whispered words he hears behind the well-intentioned judgment and criticism of his friend.

 

_He was right about you… Nothing you do is right… Why can’t you be normal, like everyone else? Why can’t you be the way you’re supposed to be?_

 

He’s learned to hide his scars well – and no one ever suspects.


	40. Burned Bridges

He never expected to be this lonely.

 

He thought the change of scenery would be healing – couldn’t imagine ever _wanting_ to return to the place that held so many painful memories for him. With ruthless emotional brutality, four words of savage cruelty, he struck a match and set the wreckage of their friendship ablaze.

 

 _We were_ never _friends._

 

The first time he tries to call, months later – there’s no answer.

 

The second time, he answers – and immediately hangs up.

 

Cruel irony – now House is the one who can’t forgive.

 

Wilson’s never burnt a bridge he really regretted – not until now.


	41. Dangerous

It doesn’t happen very often.

 

Usually, Wilson is calm, even-tempered, fun to be around – and House begins to focus only on the things he loves about him. He lets down his guard, stops measuring his words… and inevitably, something irreparably stupid will slip out.

 

An appreciative comment about some new nurse they pass in the hall – a derisive remark about his taste in television, or clothes, or women – and unexpectedly, House finds himself on the receiving end of Wilson’s wrath – exploding like lightning that’s been slowly building from a quiet, static charge.

 

Sometimes, House forgets how dangerous Wilson can be.


	42. Shower

The hot water beats down on his battered body, the room filling up with soothing steam.

 

House feels sick, his stomach roiling, his body dealing with the shock his mind can’t quite process.

 

He stares down at the water, swirling in circles down the drain… tinged with red.

 

He hears the door open, hears the curtain pulled back, though he doesn’t turn around. His stomach drops at the sound. He knows who it is – and he doesn’t want to talk to him, doesn’t want to hear his excuses.

 

Doesn’t want to ever see him again.

 

Then he’s behind him – strong, gentle arms wrapping around him and pulling him back – and House can’t help but tense at his touch, a shudder of revulsion mingling with the sick, twisted need he feels, even now, for his comfort.

 

“I’m sorry,” is whispered in his ear, the words followed by tender kisses along his shoulder, his throat. “I thought you wanted it… thought you were playing along…”

 

House doesn’t respond, knows it’s a lie… but he doesn’t pull away, either.

 

“I hate you,” he whispers at last, the words harsh and despondent, barely audible over the pounding spray that falls on both of them.

 

He feels Wilson’s smile against his damp skin, feels him shake his head. “No, you don’t,” he replies with soft confidence.

 

And House does feel hatred, disgust, revulsion – at himself – because even now, Wilson knows him too well. Even now, he doesn’t hate him for what he’s done.

 

He’s glad for the hot water that pours down on them – glad, because it hides the tears.

 

Wilson still knows they’re there – and behind him… Wilson smiles.


	43. Breakdown

“Do you know how pathetic you are?”

 

It’s not that the question is any worse than a hundred other scathing remarks House has hurled at him over the years. It’s not that Wilson is struck any deeper by this particular comment. It’s just that they’ve all built up over time, until he’s sure that he can’t take even _one more_ …

 

And House just gave him that one more…

 

Wilson’s breakdown comes with the force of a hurricane.

 

“Pathetic, huh?” he sneers, taking a step closer to his friend, who stares at him through surprised eyes under raised brows. “You wanna talk pathetic? Let’s try a fifty-year-old genius who could be at the top of his field if he didn’t have the unique talent of making everyone who meets him hate him within five seconds – who’s never been married, and has managed to drive away anyone who ever showed an interest in him, even if they were too good for him anyway.”

 

Wilson keeps advancing as he speaks, his voice lowering in volume but rising in intensity as he goes on, his rage feeding on the hurt in House’s eyes.

 

“Let’s not get into the drug habit, and the alcoholism, and the fact that he’s got to pay for sex, because no woman in her right mind would touch him once if she knew she’d have to again. We won’t get into the part where he’s a physical _and_ emotional cripple, so everyone who knows him at all views him with pity – if they can see through how much they despise him, how much he disgusts them.”

 

Wilson is silent for a moment, shaking his head in derision as he looks House up and down. “ _I’m_ pathetic? Right.”

 

House smiles, though his eyes are suspiciously damp, and his low voice trembles slightly when he speaks. “Right,” he agrees in a tone of quiet, bitter triumph. “You are. Because in spite of all the things you just mentioned – in spite of how pathetic that poor schmuck you’re talking about is – it made you feel better to knock him down _just one more time_.”

 

House turns and limps toward the door, but Wilson thinks he’s never seen more dignity in his stance – and Wilson’s never felt so low, as House delivers his parting words.

 

“And if that’s what it takes to make you feel like a man – you’re more pathetic than I thought.”


	44. Shoulder

“She left me.”

 

Wilson feels satisfaction, relief, triumph – immediately followed by guilt for such feelings. He should be feeling sympathy, compassion for the loss to which his best friend has just confessed.

 

He can’t help it.

 

He’s _glad_ Stacey’s gone.

 

After hours of reluctant talking, then yelling, then _raging_ – House finally breaks down, as Wilson’s never seen him break before…as he never would with anyone else. Once again, Wilson feels an inappropriate sense of pleasure – not at House’s pain, but at the fact that he’ll willingly share it with him.

 

He cautiously puts his arms around House, draws his head to his shoulder, soothing him, offering his support and comfort in hushed, sympathetic tones… fighting to keep the secret smile of satisfaction from his face.


	45. Pillow

Wilson’s frustrated. He’s had a long, exhausting day in which he lost two patients, and had to inform another that there’s nothing else he can do. House lies pinned beneath him on the sofa, reveling in Wilson’s rougher-than-usual attentions, as the younger man seeks to work out his tensions on his lover’s willing body.

 

In hindsight, House knows that it was probably the wrong moment to whisper someone else’s name in Wilson’s ear.

 

It was really, _really_ the wrong moment to whisper _Cuddy’s_ name.

 

There’s no time to tell Wilson he was only teasing.

 

Fury flashes in brown eyes, and House recognizes the danger a moment before the throw pillow behind his head is snatched away, and his head smacks painfully against the arm of the sofa behind him. Before he can react, the small, thick pillow is pressed over his face – hard, suffocating, unrelenting despite his ill-aimed, flailing struggles. Wilson has greater strength, greater leverage on his side, and regardless of his efforts, House’s lungs burn for breath that’s denied them.

 

“You want her? You want her instead of me?” He hears the demanding whisper in his ear.

 

He struggles to shake his head, to deny it; it’s not true, anyway. It was just a joke – apparently not funny.

 

Wilson presses down harder to emphasize his words as he snarls, “You’re… _mine_.”

 

House nods eagerly, desperate to make Wilson relent – and at last, he does. House gasps in a desperate draught of air – which is immediately stolen away again by Wilson’s hard, possessive kiss.

 

House knows he should be bothered by what just happened – but in a twisted way it’s hot to think that Wilson wants him, _needs_ him that badly. Within moments the incident is forgotten, and both are lost in the violent frenzy of their mutual need.


	46. Silent Tears

House rarely cries – and only one person has ever been allowed to see it.

 

Following his surgery, when he awakened to what Stacey had done, and screamed at her to _get out_ , refusing to accept her comfort and desperate apologies – it was only Wilson whom he had allowed to stay, only Wilson who had been allowed near enough to witness the tears of rage, loss, and frustration that streaked his face.

 

Months later, when Stacey left him, Wilson was the one who stayed with him in his apartment, in spite of the anger and insults and rude attempts to get Wilson to abandon him as well. Eventually, Wilson had seen his tears then, as well, when House had broken down one night, not bothering to try to hide it from the only person who had proven to be a constant in his life.

 

But all that’s ended now – ended when House awakened in the hospital bed, Cuddy asleep at his side, just in time to watch Wilson turn and walk away, his own face streaked with tears of grief.

 

House turns his head and cries, silent tears soaking into his pillow – and this time, no one is there to see.


	47. Our Secret

She finds me on the balcony.

 

I wish she would go away, wish she wouldn’t question, wouldn’t look at me with that damned concern in her eyes – because he’s watching, from his own office, his head bowed over his desk as if he’s focused on his work.

 

But he’s not.

 

I can feel each heated, suspicious glance – know he’s wondering if I will keep our secret.

 

I force myself not to flinch as she touches my bruised shoulder, makes me turn to face her – and him, just past her. My eyes meet his for an instant before I look her in the eye – all innocence.

 

“House,” she asks, so concerned, so compassionate. “Are you all right? Is… everything… all right?”

 

It almost makes me want to cry.

 

“Everything is just perfect, Cuddy. Go away.”

 

I snap at her, hoping to drive her away before she can notice that my cane is on the wrong side today. My right arm is too sore to hold it. I know he didn’t mean to shake me that hard – didn’t mean to wrench it so badly. If I’d just do a better job of keeping him happy…

 

“Are you sure?” she asks, and oh God, her voice is softer now, with a gentleness I rarely hear from anyone anymore.

 

_Go away, go away before you ruin everything…_

“Oh, wait,” I reply with a sarcastic smile. “I just remembered – my life sucks because someone performed a medical procedure on me without my consent, and now I can’t walk…”

 

_No, stupid, don’t draw attention to the cane…_

 

“And I just remembered something else,” I continue in a cold voice of false surprise, still smiling. “You’re not someone I care to talk to about my personal life. So if you don’t mind, would you kindly _go… away_.”

 

It was risky, but I knew the mention of that long-ago surgery would do it. Guilt is evident on her face, and her eyes fill with unshed tears. She nods – probably too emotional to speak – and turns and walks away.

 

I’ve hurt her. She was just trying to help me, to reach out to me, and I’ve hurt her – but I’ve also managed to push her away.

 

And that’s good.

 

I catch his eye before I turn and go back to my office – and he’s smiling.

 

He approves.

 

Our secret is safe for another day, and hopefully… so am I.


	48. Dark

There’s nothing House hates more than being in the dark – figuratively, or literally.

 

Wilson promises he won’t blindfold him, won’t take that last control from him – and then waits until he’s bound, gagged, at his mercy and unable to voice his protest, before tying something over his eyes and shutting out the slightest shred of light.

 

It drives him to the point of panic – not knowing where the next touch will come from, not knowing if it will tingle, or tickle, or hurt like hell.

 

In the darkness, all control is relinquished to the one who’s still in the light.


	49. Light

Wilson is not what he seems to be in the light of day.

 

Each morning, he goes to work and plays his part – caring, concerned doctor, devoted to his patients’ well-being – and he plays it well. Sometimes, it doesn’t even feel like playing.

 

Sometimes, he believes it’s real.

 

Sometimes, it _is_ real. He _does_ care.

 

But there are other things for which he cares more.

 

It’s only in the privacy of home that he can reveal who he really is – and only to one person.

 

His darkest appetites, the ones not met by his fulfilling career – the need to hurt, the need to own, the need to control – are the perfect compliment to the needs of his lover – the need to be punished, to be owned, to surrender control to someone else.

 

Wilson is grateful to give vent to his darkness – because it allows him to live in the light.


	50. Moon

When the sky is clear, House can see the moon through his tiny window.

 

It’s the only glimpse he gets of outdoors anymore.

 

Wilson brought him here, a week after Amber died. House never saw the blow coming from behind – never suspected Wilson’s reason for bringing him _there_ to “talk”.

 

When he came to that first night, chained to the basement wall, Wilson was sitting beside him, regret and resignation mingled in dark eyes tinged with a frightening madness born of his grief.

 

“I’m sorry,” House whispered, immediately misunderstanding – thinking that this was about revenge, punishment.

 

Wilson just sadly shook his head. “It wasn’t your fault, House. You have to understand. It could have happened at any time – anywhere. You couldn’t control it – I couldn’t control it. There are a thousand other ways I could have lost her.”

 

His voice softened as he leaned closer, and House flinched, still expecting a blow – but only receiving a tender kiss. He yielded to it, willing to submit until he could figure a way out of this.

 

He didn’t know yet that there _was_ no way.

 

Wilson pulled back, that desperate madness mingled with affection in his eyes – and with his chillingly soft words, House understood.

 

“I can’t lose you, too. No matter what. I can’t… even if that means you never see the light of day again.”


	51. Gift

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

 

Hell, it seemed like the best idea he’d ever had.

 

Pretending not to remember Wilson’s birthday was easy. It wasn’t as if he had remembered Wilson’s _last_ birthday. Of course, now that they were openly, officially _together_ …

 

By the end of the day, Wilson was visibly agitated… but House played it cool.

 

It would be worth it to see the look on Wilson’s face when he walked through the door of his apartment to find House sitting on the edge of his bed, wearing the things he had purchased at the only sex shop in downtown Princeton.

 

Black leather shorts, far tighter than was comfortable – a black leather harness strapped around his bare chest – a matching black gag fastened into his mouth – and finally, wide cuffs of black leather that attached behind his back with a hook-and-eye style latch… which meant that the wearer could fasten them together on his own, but would be unable to unfasten them again without assistance.

 

He carefully laid out the oversized birthday card he had purchased, on the floor facing away from him. The silly picture and printed words were meaningless. The sloppily scrawled message inside was what mattered.

 

_“Happy Birthday, Master… Ready to unwrap your gift?”_

Okay, so it wasn’t the most original line in the book – but House had a feeling that the prospect of having him as a willing slave for a night would take Wilson’s focus completely off the cheesy card.

 

Wilson’s jaw went slack when he opened the bedroom door – and other things went decidedly _not_ slack.

 

House waited, breathless with anticipation, as Wilson silently read the card and tossed it aside. He stared down at House for a long moment, dark eyes darkening further with lust as he took in the appealing picture he presented.

 

“You’re sure you want to do this?” he asked in a low, husky voice.

 

House nodded emphatically.

 

Wilson crouched in front of him, pulling him nearer by the straps of the harness. “I don’t always play nice with my new toys,” he warned with a sly smile.

 

House’s response was a careless shrug, his eyes twinkling in playful challenge.

 

Something sharp and dangerous flashed in Wilson’s eyes, his smile widening slightly as he nodded, accepting his gift. The smile disappeared an instant later as he ordered in a hard-edged tone,

 

“Get on your knees.”


	52. Love

It’s been two months since they surrendered to attraction – and for House, attraction’s drifting toward much more.

 

He’s tried to wall away his heart, tried to hide the feelings swelling there – but his resolve’s faltering. Every time he looks into warm eyes full of affection and desire, he’s a little more sure that this time – this time, surely it’s safe.

 

This is _Wilson_.

 

No one knows him better; no one else would he dare to trust.

 

One night, before he even knows he’s going to say them – the words are out.

 

“ _I love you_.”

 

His breath hitches, his heart skips a beat – and he waits.

 

After a still, silent moment he dares to look up into startled, dark eyes that stare down at him in wonder. Slowly, Wilson’s lips curve into a smile of delight and affection. He leans down to bestow a tender kiss before withdrawing to meet House’s hopeful, vulnerable eyes – and as he speaks an unexpected and wholly devastating answer, House detects a hint of wicked mirth in his gaze.

 

“ _I know_.”


	53. Whip

“Wilson…” House’s voice is hushed and hesitant as he approaches the sofa where Wilson sits, watching television. “I… I need a pill.” His limp is more pronounced, and Wilson notices that House’s legs are shaking as he stands there, waiting for Wilson to give him what he needs.

 

These past few weeks, they’ve been using a new plan, to help House overcome his addiction – a plan of Wilson’s design. Wilson holds his pills, and House only gets them when Wilson deems it necessary.

 

Wilson looks up at him, his expression calm, patient, concerned. He frowns. “Are you sure?”

 

House bites his lip, his breath hitching slightly in his throat. “I… yeah. I… I can’t wait any more.”

 

Wilson rises slowly, acutely aware of the way House tenses when he moves.

 

“You know it’ll cost you.”

 

House swallows hard. “How much?” His voice is trembling slightly.

 

“It’s only been eight hours,” Wilson observes, his tone mild. He pauses. “Fifteen.”

 

House winces, but then nods hurriedly. “Yes. I… I can’t…”

 

Wilson gives him a slow, solemn nod. “All right. If you’re sure it’s worth it.”

 

He goes to the closet, taking something down from the top shelf. By the time he turns around, House is facing him – shirtless – and staring with dread at the sturdy leather whip curled around Wilson’s hand. Wilson doesn’t speak; just nods toward House while making a spinning gesture with his free hand. Silent, obedient, House turns around, exposing his already-scarred back to Wilson’s lash.

 

By the time they reach number seven, House is on his knees on the floor. Number eleven draws a strangled scream from his throat, though he bites it back with an effort. By fifteen, he’s quietly sobbing, his narrow shoulders shaking, bloodied where the new beating tore into the remnants of the last one.

 

Wilson gathers the supplies he needs, and then goes to House’s side, goes down on his knees beside him, one hand gently stroking through his hair. There are tears in his eyes as he quietly soothes House, blotting the blood from his back with a soft, warm cloth, and bandaging the fresh wounds.

 

When it’s over, he shakes a single white pill into House’s hand.

 

“Negative reinforcement,” he repeats for what feels like the hundredth time – and it may be, though it’s only been a few short weeks. “I know this is going to work.”

 

House nods, closing his eyes against his tears, head falling back with relief as he waits for the Vicodin to do its job and soothe both the ache in his leg and the searing agony on his back.

 

Wilson’s voice is sad, gentle, as he presses a hand to House’s cheek, his eyes filling with tears when House presses into his touch.

 

“Maybe next time… you can go longer without it.” He presses a gentle kiss to House’s forehead as he stands, tipping his chin up and looking him in the eye as he whispers, “Remember – I’m only doing this because I love you.”


	54. Possessive

The last thing he expected was for her to kiss him.

 

He doesn’t mean to kiss her back; it’s habit, really. A pretty woman kisses you – you kiss back.

 

It’s not like it happens all that often.

 

She’s reaching into her pocket. His hand rises to stop its progress as she brings it toward him – but suddenly, there’s empty space where Cameron was.

 

And then, empty space is filled with Wilson.

 

“What _is_ this?” he demands, voice high, trembling with outrage as he looks between them. “With the… with the kissing, and the touching, and the… open… hypodermic… needle?” He frowns at Cameron, puzzled, questioning.

 

Cameron looks trapped, tucks the needle into her pocket as she opens her mouth to respond.

 

Wilson waves a dismissive hand, muttering, “Oh, to hell with it… I don’t care about that. Let’s just make one thing clear…”

 

He grabs House’s collar roughly and jerks him forward into a hard, possessive kiss, claiming his mouth with his own, pushing him back over his desk as he presses in close. When he’s finished, House is breathless, slumped against the desk, his splayed legs apparently lacking the strength to hold him up. He stares up at Wilson through wide, stunned eyes full of new admiration – and desire.

 

“ _This_ …” Wilson indicates House with a sweeping gesture as he turns toward Cameron. “… is _mine_. Hands off. Lips off. _Everything_ off. Capiche?”

 

Cameron nods hurriedly, eyes round and startled as she backs toward the door, then turns on her heel and scurries away.

 

Wilson turns back to House, who’s laughing softly, watching Cameron go. “So much for keeping it quiet at work…” His voice trails off as he looks up at the dark, almost predatory expression on Wilson’s face. “Um… that was… wasn’t anything…”

 

“Damn right it wasn’t,” Wilson mutters as he drags House up off the desk by his collar again, kissing him soundly.

 

One hand slips down between House’s legs, squeezing hard until House lets out a choked, frantic moan against his mouth. Wilson draws back slightly, a hard, warning look in his eyes as he whispers, “ _This_ is mine, too. And if I ever catch you forgetting that very important fact again… you’ll spend the next week tied to my bed while I remind you.”

 

House grins despite the almost painful pressure of Wilson’s grip. “Is that a promise?” he gasps, his voice hoarse with need.

 

Wilson’s eyes narrow at House’s defiant question, and he responds by claiming his mouth again, pressing him backward until his back is flat against his desk.

 

House smirks up at his jealously amorous lover. “So much for keeping the secret, huh?” he repeats, clearly quite pleased with himself.

 

“What secret?” Wilson growls, hands gripping House’s wrists, holding them over his head as he leans in for another kiss. “I want _everyone_ to know you’re mine.”


	55. Bareback

Passion is interrupted by practicality.

 

House gently pushes Wilson back, away from him.

 

“Just a second…” He reaches into the nightstand. It’s empty. “Damn.”

 

Wilson frowns, impatient – shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. We’ve been tested. We’re safe.”

 

House meets his eyes. “Six months ago. Are you sure you’re still safe?”

 

Wilson smiles. “We’ve been together _seven_ months.”

 

House’s expression doesn’t change, and neither does his tone. “Are you sure you’re still safe?”

 

Hurt in Wilson’s eyes and voice ensure he’ll get his way, despite House’s misgivings, as he lies softly, “Of course I am. There’s only been you… Don’t you trust me?”


	56. Negotiate

“Where were _you_ all night?”

 

House’s voice is hoarse with sleep, and vaguely accusing as he walks into the kitchen – and stops short at Wilson’s appearance.

 

He’s sitting at the table, sipping his coffee, staring into space. He looks up when House enters, revealing that his face is bruised and swollen, and there’s a strange coldness in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

 

Wilson had a literal hell of a night.

 

He’s feeling better now. Stronger.

 

Less broken and devasted – more furious and resentful.

 

He sips his coffee again, slowly sets down the cup, meeting House’s eyes. “I was with Tritter,” he responds in a soft, dangerous voice. “Negotiating.” He pauses as he rises painfully, moving to put the cup in the sink. “You’re a free man.”

 

House notices the awkward way in which Wilson is moving, the obvious pain in his every step – and hot fury flares up within him.

 

“That bastard,” he mutters, moving up behind Wilson at the sink. “We’ll make him pay for this. He has no right to touch you. We’re going straight to the…”

 

Wilson whirls around abruptly, swinging his arm in a sharp slap that sends House staggering, staring up at him, bewildered, fingers gingerly brushing his bleeding lip.

 

“We’re going to _no one_!” Wilson declares, his voice trembling with rage as he steps closer, and House instinctively takes a step back. “You want this to mean _nothing_? We go to anybody about this, and your case proceeds as he planned! You want last night to be completely worthless?”

 

House stares in shock, slowly processing his words. “You shouldn’t have… I mean… you didn’t have to…”

 

“Well, I did,” Wilson sneers bitterly. “And you’re a free man. Mostly.”

 

“Mostly?” House echoes dumbly, watching warily but not moving away as Wilson slowly moves toward him.

 

“Yeah.” Wilson nods as he closes the distance between them.

 

House is not using his cane yet this morning, and a swift, cruel motion of Wilson’s foot knocks his good leg out from under him, sending him sprawling on the floor at Wilson’s feet. Glaring coldly down at him, Wilson adds the final verbal blow, and all becomes chillingly clear.

 

“You _owe_ me,” he whispers. “Everything he took from me last night – you owe.”


	57. Second Chance

“Please.” Wilson’s voice is unusually humble. “Give me a second chance? I _love_ you…”

 

House knows better than to yield. Words he’s spoken to abuse victims in the clinic echo, harsh and insensitive… and utterly true.

 

_To guys like him, forgiveness is permission. You’re an idiot if you let him touch you again. Taking him back is telling him to do whatever he wants – you’ll roll over and take it, every time…_

 

Wilson’s never hurt him – physically.

 

House is fairly certain the principle applies to unfaithfulness as well as abuse.

 

He’s equally certain that Wilson’s going to get his second chance.

 

Because when it comes to denying Wilson anything he asks – House loves him too much.

 

House never had a _first_ chance to begin with.


	58. Breathe

By now, he’s used to the games.

 

But Wilson’s never instigated one this cruel.

 

The cord around his throat cuts off his breath – and Wilson holds it.

 

“If I hear the first hint of the safe word on your lips,” Wilson whispers from behind him, “I’ll let go – but I’ll walk out that door, and never come back.”

 

House isn’t sure he means it – but he’s sure enough to ensure his silence.

 

He’s blacking out when Wilson releases him at last, and oxygen floods his lungs again.

 

Thrilled with his power, Wilson smiles down at him. “I love you, too,” he murmurs.

 

House knows all too well that it’s a lie.

 

It doesn’t matter.

 

He needs Wilson more than he needs the air he breathes.


	59. Anger

As his living room light switches on, House is startled to see Wilson sitting on his sofa – quiet, solemn… waiting.

 

“You know, that key’s for emergencies.”

 

Wilson doesn’t acknowledge the comment, is silent for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is soft, eerily calm.

 

“I had a physical today. My PCP put me on medication for elevated BP.”

 

Not seeing the point, House shrugs as he hangs up his coat. “Guess you’d better lay off the fast food, then, huh, Jimmy?”

 

“There’s a recent study on the effects of anger on a person’s health,” Wilson continues as if House hasn’t spoken. “How it taxes the body, contributes to stress-related illness... It can even kill if a person doesn’t find an… an outlet. Some way of _dealing_ with the anger.”

 

House snorts rudely. “Guess you’re due to cash it in anytime, then, aren’t you?”

 

“I’m _trying_ to deal with my anger right _now_ …”

 

“Maybe you’d be better off waiting in the office of a _professional_ , instead of my living room,” House points out. “I’m thinking you have a better chance of someone actually caring about your issues if you pay them to.”

 

Wilson is silent – not in the least amused – as he slowly rises to his feet. House’s eyes widen as he notices the tightly clenched fists at Wilson’s sides, and the look of dark determination in his narrowed eyes. Wilson’s voice is frighteningly soft, his smile disturbingly cold, as he finally responds to House’s goading.

 

“I didn’t come here to talk.”

 

As Wilson leaves House’s apartment an hour later, he pauses by the trash can, taking a folded piece of paper from his pocket – his prescription for blood pressure medication. With a smile of cold satisfaction, Wilson crumples the paper in his hand and tosses it into the trash.


	60. Letting Go

“I can’t keep doing this, House.”

 

Wilson’s voice is quiet, apologetic, as he speaks into the stillness. He can’t look into the face of his friend, the man he’s not sure he can forgive. At this point, he’s not sure House cares whether or not he’s forgiven, anyway.

 

“This isn’t healthy, for either of us. I’ve known it for a long time. I know this… isn’t a friendship. This is… something else, but… whatever it is… it’s poison. To both of us. I keep holding on, because… I think because it’s… comfortable. I’m used to this. But… I have to let you go, House…”

 

He rises, moving closer to the hospital bed where his friend lies, still and silent and utterly unaware of his anguished bedside confessions.

 

“I haven’t got a choice…”

 

Wilson’s eyes are dry, his expression calm but sorrowful as he draws the needle from his pocket, presses the empty syringe into the iv tube connected to House’s arm.

 

“… you know as well as I do… we’re both better off this way.”


	61. Hatred

“I hate that shirt on you.”

 

House glances at Wilson in the driver’s seat, frowning.

 

The shirt is pale blue, and earned the admiration of every woman – and a few of the men – at the benefit that night. In spite of himself, House enjoyed the rare romantic attention. Now, he glances uncertainly down at the shirt before speaking.

 

“I thought you loved this shirt.”

 

“You thought wrong.”

 

House smiles, putting the pieces together. He shifts nearer, one hand gliding up Wilson’s chest while the other caresses his neck.

 

“Jealous?” House murmurs as he follows the touch with a series of tender kisses along Wilson’s throat. “Don’t be… No matter how hot… everyone… at that party… thinks I am… you know… you’re the only… man for me…”

 

It’s an emotional slap in the face when Wilson roughly shoves him back with an irritated hiss. “Stop it,” he snaps. His expression is dark, angry, as he stares out the windshield. A moment later he barely breathes out the word, “Slut.”

 

The exhilaration House felt fades at Wilson’s reaction, his stomach feeling queasy as he realizes that this is not over.

 

Wilson’s just waiting until his hands are free to participate in the “conversation”.

 

By the time they pull into the driveway, House has decided that it’s not the shirt Wilson hates.

 

It’s not having House all to himself, even if only for an evening.

 

In the solitude of their apartment, Wilson spends the night reasserting his claim, despite House’s protests, resistance, and finally… pleas.

 

The next day, once Wilson has gone to work, and once he can find the strength to move again, House builds a fire in the fireplace… and tosses the shirt into it, watching with dull, defeated eyes as it burns.

 

He can’t stand the sight of it anymore.


	62. Alone

Wilson knows exactly what he’s doing.

 

His cruel words are, in effect, ending their entire relationship.

 

Except – he’s not really _ending_ it, so much as… _fixing_ it. Making it what it always should have been.

 

He’s breaking House’s heart – and looking forward to putting it back together again… the way he wants it.

 

He’ll let House suffer awhile, let him see how miserable he is alone, wait until he’s sure he’s lost Wilson forever – then take him back.

 

With… conditions.

 

Wilson knows, by then, House will be desperate – willing to do _anything_ for Wilson’s forgiveness… anything, not to be alone.


	63. Happiness

It takes months for House to recover from the loss of Wilson’s friendship – and during those months, he forms a new friendship.

 

Friendship gradually becomes more, as House learns to trust in the love of someone he once thought of as only his boss – his annoyingly involved, undeniably sexy boss.

 

Now – Cuddy is so much more to him.

 

He doesn’t think of Wilson that much anymore.

 

Amidst the rubble left by Amber’s death, House has finally found some measure of happiness.

 

It’s shattered completely one night, when he returns home to find her lying there, lifeless blue eyes staring up at the ceiling… soft, dark hair matted with blood.

 

Wilson stands over her, smiling at House as he enters – the literally smoking gun clutched in his hand.

 

“You took my chance at happiness,” Wilson declares softly as House falls to his knees beside her, desperately seeking any sign of life – and finding none. “Why should you get to be happy?”

 

House’s entire being is utterly consumed with shock and grief and horror at what’s happened – so the fact that he doesn’t see the end coming is hardly a mercy, as Wilson takes aim behind him… and fires the gun again.


	64. Face to Face

For months, Wilson tries to get House to try it face-to-face.

 

There’s so much vulnerability inherent in looking into the eyes of his lover. House likes his back to Wilson, so he can hide the moments when his emotions are so helplessly, completely displayed.

 

Gradually, Wilson convinces him to try it – and House finds an unexpected satisfaction in the intense intimacy and trust of facing Wilson.

 

The first time Wilson doesn’t want to face him – House knows his trust has been betrayed.

 

He doesn’t want to face Wilson tonight, either.

 

He doesn’t want to see their ending in his eyes.


	65. In the Dark

House flips the switch on his living room wall as he walks into his apartment.

 

The room stays dark.

 

The hairs on the back of House’s neck stand up, an instant before a strong, soft hand slides around his throat, pulling him back against his assailant’s chest.

 

“Shhh,” he is warned in a low voice of black satin. “Do as you’re told… and I won’t hurt you…”

 

House replies with a smirk and a suggestive taunt. “What if I _want_ you to hurt me?”

 

The tone in his attacker’s voice instantly changes to nervous and embarrassed. “Don’t! You’ll ruin it…”

 

House immediately relents, rolling his eyes. The mocking expression can’t be seen in the dark, anyway. His tone instantly changes to one that could almost be genuine fear.

 

“Okay… okay, please don’t… don’t hurt me…”

 

That dark, silken confidence is back in the hardened voice of the stranger behind him when he speaks again. “That’s better. Bedroom. Now. Don’t turn around, don’t look at me, and don’t you _dare_ resist.”

 

“Okay… whatever you want… anything you say…” House gladly complies, feigning fear and submission.

 

He enjoys this particular game.

 

In the dark – Wilson can be whoever he wants to be.


	66. Cold

Sometimes Wilson’s eyes are cold.

 

House’s heart sinks, immediately knowing he’s done something wrong – and not just the usual kind of wrong he does every day, but wrong enough to drive the warmth and affection from Wilson’s gaze, and replace it with frigid indifference that places trembling dread in the pit of House’s stomach.

 

He knows Wilson won’t hurt him, won’t even fly into a rage, yell, lecture, tell House in a hundred different ways what’s wrong with him, what he needs to change.

 

He’ll simply ignore him.

 

All House can do is wait, longing for the warmth to return.


	67. Heat

Sometimes there’s a dark heat in Wilson’s eyes.

 

House recognizes danger, knows Wilson might not control the consuming flame of desire and rage. His stomach clenches, his heartbeat fluttering fast with a mixture of anticipation and fear.

 

He isn’t sure _what_ might happen when they’re alone, and Wilson takes him into that searing heat – whether Wilson might strike out in anger, or pin him against the bed and have his way – or forego the choice altogether and do both.

 

Wilson will do whatever he wants.

 

As House waits, he wonders if he just might be better off in the cold.


	68. Bruises

The bathroom door is locked. House knows he won’t be interrupted.

 

He hopes Wilson doesn’t try to get in and find it locked, though – because he wouldn’t like it at all.

 

He winces as he removes his shirt, examining himself in the mirror.

 

Not so bad this time.

 

A fairly light bruise just beneath his shoulder; it’ll be gone in a day or two.

 

A darker, deeper bruise low on his stomach… A grimace as he presses it, testing.

 

Yeah. That one’s gonna last a little longer.

 

The ones on his arm, though – the ones in the shape of a familiar hand – bring a grim smile to his lips.

 

Six months together – and Wilson still won’t let him tell anyone. He’d never admit it, but it hurts to think that Wilson doesn’t want anyone to know… that he’s… _ashamed_ of him.

 

The bruises hurt – but they’re a physical reminder of the relationship. They’re almost like… marks of ownership… of _belonging_ – proof that he’s _Wilson’s_. House’s fingertips trace slowly over the lines where Wilson’s fingers clutched his arm – and his expression becomes softer, wistful.

 

These painful marks of Wilson’s anger are the closest House may ever come to holding his hand.


	69. Walls

Wilson has a thing for walls.

 

House sometimes thinks it’s the reason he’s attracted to him. No one has thicker, stronger, more challenging walls than House.

 

It’s amazing how easily Wilson can get past them, though. Before House even realizes it’s happened, he’s whispering secret words in the middle of the night – confessions he never thought he’d share with anyone.

 

In the light of day, House worries what might happen if Wilson ever decides to betray his trust. He’s seen the victorious light in Wilson’s eyes, the thrill of power felt at being the only one privy to House’s secrets – the only one allowed behind his walls.

 

House knows too well what power can do to the best of intentions, and wishes he’d never handed over such power to the only one he’s ever wanted to trust. He vows to take back that power, and throughout the day, gradually puts the walls back up, piece by piece.

 

But that evening, just before leaving, Wilson pulls him into his office and kisses him fervently, pushing him back against the wall, and House is left breathless and longing – the remnants of his walls once again crumbled on the floor at Wilson’s feet.


	70. Guilty

The whole thing’s easier than Wilson expected.

 

He watches from the window as House discovers her body – laughs in triumph when House picks up the glass on the coffee table, immediately noticing the powder settled in the bottom. When he picks up the packet beside the glass, Wilson can hardly contain his satisfaction.

 

It’s almost too easy.

 

House’s fingerprints on the glass and packet of poison, his presence in Cuddy’s apartment when the authorities arrive, are more than enough for a conviction. When the police find the rest of the poison in House’s apartment – his fate is sealed.

 

Wilson doesn’t feel bad.

 

House didn’t hurt Cuddy… but he’s still guilty of murder.

 

And as for Cuddy… well, she shouldn’t have taken the side of the murderer over the side of the victim.

 

The first night House spends in prison, for the first time since Amber’s death… Wilson sleeps in peace.


	71. Unfair

House should have known better than to try that “one last time”.

 

He _really_ should have known better than to make one particularly unfortunate comment.

 

“You’re not being fair.”

 

Wilson’s control breaks, and before either of them knows it, he’s around his desk and in House’s face.

 

“You know what’s unfair, House? What’s unfair is the fact that a worthless, miserable addict like you survived, and the generous, giving woman who was only _there_ because of said drug addict had to die because of his _selfish, reckless_ behavior! The fact that you’re _alive_ right now is what’s unfair!”

 

House is quiet for long enough that Wilson thinks it’s over, and turns back toward his desk.

 

“No!” House nearly shouts, drawing Wilson’s surprised attention. “No, you wanna know what’s unfair, Wilson? What’s unfair is that I’ve been your friend for the last ten years – and you threw it away for a girl you’d been with less than six months! I might not have a lot to give when it comes to sentimental, emotional crap – but what little there is has always been _yours_! And you were willing to throw away my _life_ in place of hers! Does that sound _fair_ to you?”

 

After a calmly pensive moment, Wilson replies quietly, “No.” A moment later he adds, “And I’d choose her again.”

 

It’s not right. It’s completely unfair. But it’s reality.

 

With nothing left to say, House turns and walks out of Wilson’s office… leaving the remnants of his shattered illusions behind.


	72. Hard

“Look, I know you don’t wanna hear me, but I… guess I’m just hoping you will… I’m so… so sorry, Wilson…”

 

There’s no time to react as Wilson comes around his desk, grasping his arms and slamming him against the wall, hard. Warm lips press against his in a hard, punishing kiss. Fierce and possessive and furious, Wilson’s hands move over his body, and he draws back to meet House’s eyes with an angry, demanding glare.

 

“Wilson… I…”

 

“Shut up,” Wilson hisses. “I hate you.”

 

He kisses House again, hard enough to knock his head into the wall, before relenting, allowing House to draw breath. Disoriented, confused, hopeful, aroused – House can’t tell _what_ he’s feeling as Wilson grips his arms painfully and pins him against the wall.

 

“I wish you were her… wish you’d died in her place… but I can’t ever be with her again. You made sure of that,” Wilson whispers, his voice harsh with bitter tears. “She was never the proxy. _You_ are,” he sneers. “You’ll have to do.”

 

It hurts so much; it’s so hard for House to kiss Wilson again after those agonizing words – but he yields to Wilson’s kiss, raising tentative hands to grip Wilson’s waist and pull him closer.

 

It’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do – but he’ll surrender to this, if it’s what Wilson needs.


	73. The Price

“I miss her, House.”

 

Wilson takes another drink of the ironically colored liquid, staring at the glass as he speaks to the anxious man standing beside the sofa. When there’s no response, he looks up through dark, warning eyes.

 

“Did you hear me?”

 

House nods nervously, edging between the coffee table and the sofa. “It’s just… I… was in the clinic today, and… my leg…”

 

“We have a deal, House.”

 

“I… I know.”

 

House struggles to kneel in front of Wilson, who offers no assistance despite House’s obvious pain. He sets the glass on the coffee table, leans back and closes his eyes, one hand cupping the bulge in the front of his jeans.

 

“You agreed to this, House,” Wilson reminds him, voice slightly slurred. “You said you’d do _anything_ if I’d forgive you.”

 

“I know,” House whispers.

 

In exchange for Wilson’s forgiveness, his continued friendship – House has to do anything he asks. If Wilson wants to talk, House has to listen. If he’s angry, needs to vent, House provides his own body as the target for his rage.

 

When Wilson is missing Amber, longing for an intimate touch – or just a good lay – well… House has to provide that, too.

 

All the things he’s never given Wilson before, in all the years of their friendship, Wilson now requires of him – the price for the continuance of that friendship.

 

Wilson’s granted forgiveness – but only in exchange for House’s everything.

 

House never stops to wonder if the price is too high.


	74. Layer of Dust

Wilson stares at the forgotten item on the closet shelf, memories filling his mind at the once-familiar sight.

 

House’s cane… covered in a thick layer of dust.

 

Wilson smiles at the memories of what once was – and pleasure at what now is.

 

House doesn’t need the cane anymore.

 

A simple spinal injection – the slightest “accidental” slip of Wilson’s hand – took care of that.

 

Wilson finds the tennis racket he sought, and closes the closet door, whistling cheerfully as he crosses the living room. He runs an affectionate hand through House’s hair as he reaches his wheelchair beside the sofa, his smile widening when House flinches, looking up at him through wide, fearful eyes.

 

“Relax.” Wilson winks. “I’m in a good mood today.”

 

He hums softly to himself as he fastens the restraints on the arms of House’s wheelchair around his wrists.

 

“Wilson,” House pleads, his voice hoarse with thirst and lack of use. “Please… you don’t have to…”

 

“Don’t be silly.” Wilson’s voice is still light, but there’s a warning edge that silences House’s cautious protests. “You remember what happened last time.”

 

House tries to pull away when he sees the gag in Wilson’s hand, but Wilson’s hand shoots out to seize his hair, jerking his head back painfully. Wilson’s voice is cold and soft as he crouches beside House.

 

“Careful,” he warns. “Wouldn’t want to have to hurt you.”

 

House surrenders, eyes closed as Wilson straps the gag in place, then turns on the television and places the remote control under House’s right hand.

 

“Just relax.” Wilson’s voice is patient and affectionate again. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

 

Despite the bonds, as Wilson walks out the door, House feels an overwhelming sense of relief. At least for the next few hours – he doesn’t have to be afraid.


	75. Ashamed (a Shadows of Doubt drabble)

_It’s not my fault._  
  
He looks into the mirror, wincing at the sight of the bruises that mottle his skin, and wondering what someone would think if they saw him like this – if anyone would even care.   
  
He’s driven everyone away until the only one who cares anymore is the one who did this to him.  
  
 _It’s not_ his _fault, either. If I hadn’t made him angry… if I hadn’t pushed so hard, made fun of him in front of everyone else… He never would have touched me if I’d just kept my stupid mouth shut…_  
  
It’s all my fault.


	76. Not Again

He was vaguely aware through the pleasant haze that surrounded him of hands, hot and hard and insistent, tugging his shirt free of the waistband of his jeans -- forceful, punishing lips claiming his throat -- someone else's head nudging his back, none too gently, to allow those lips better access to his skin.  
  
Something about this was familiar... and unsettling...  
  
Arousal mingled with unease as he tried to raise his head, tried to push his seducer away.  
  
"No... not again..."  
  
"Shut up."   
  
There was irritation in the other man's voice as he muttered the words against his neck, tickling his skin and sending a fresh shock of arousal through him to further complicate his muddled, confusing desires.  
  
A hand thrust something into his trembling grasp, and he recognized it as the bottle he had set on the coffee table earlier, feeling that he had had enough.  
  
Apparently, his friend disagreed.  
  
"Have another drink." There was contempt in the low, silken voice as it issued the soft command, strangely soothing to him in his inebriated state. "Don't worry. In the morning, you won't even remember..."  
  
He surrendered to the advances of his friend, both despairing and relieved... because he knew from past experience, from memories ironically only clear in these moments of hazy drunkenness, that it was the truth.  
  
He would forget again... just as he always had before.  
  
Maybe just because he didn't want to remember.


	77. Good Friends Stab You in the Front

"I want out."  
  
Wilson's stomach lurched with the soft, certain words -- but he could barely detect the note of sorrow and dread they carried. A knowing smile rose to his lips as he moved smoothly into House's path, one arm braced against the door jamb to block his escape. His voice was low and dark and knowing when he replied.  
  
"No, you don't."  
  
"Yes, I do," House insisted, but his eyes were averted, and there was a slight tremor of desperation in his voice. "This... this is wrong, Wilson..."  
  
He took an instinctive backward step away from the door -- away from Wilson -- but Wilson only took the opportunity to slam the door, reaching out in the same fluid motion to grasp House's shirt and sling him around, his back slamming into newly closed door.  
  
House winced with the pain of the motion, raising shaking hands in a weak attempt to stop Wilson's advances; but Wilson merely caught his wrists, pinning them to the wall beside his head as his mouth assaulted House's throat, marking him, claiming him with kisses and bites just a little too hard to be pleasant.  
  
"Like you care if it's wrong," Wilson muttered, smiling against House's shivering skin.  
  
House struggled to meet his eyes through the haze of mingled fear and arousal, swallowing hard before whispering hoarsely in a voice touched with shame.  
  
"I'm tired of... of letting you do this... letting you... hurt me..."  
  
Wilson shrugged slightly, holding House's gaze with a wicked gleam in his dark eyes.  
  
"So what?"   
  
Wilson murmured the words, punctuating them with a kiss so forceful that it slammed House's head painfully into the door behind him, only breaking from the kiss when House was breathless and gasping.   
  
Wilson smiled coldly into House's eyes, sliding the knife home with his cruelly whispered words.  
  
"You might not like it... but you'll take it... because you know it's the only way you'll ever get me to touch you."  
  
House's eyes widened with hurt, but when Wilson leaned in to kiss him again... he surrendered to the painful affection, grateful if only for the fact that with Wilson, he knew what to expect.  
  
And this type of contact with Wilson was better than no contact at all.


	78. Ain't No Other Man

"Wait... _Why?_ "  
  
The soulful sound of the music in the background seems to draw to the surface all the emotions they spend all day hiding, from everyone -- including each other.  
  
Now, as Wilson looks down at House on the sofa beneath him, gazing up at him with wide, vulnerable eyes, he can see the fear and uncertainty in that piercing blue gaze -- the fear that this is all bound to disappear eventually.  
  
The fear that he'll be alone again before long.  
  
Wilson shakes his head slowly, a sympathetic smile on his lips before they fall to claim House's mouth in a tender, thorough kiss that says more than any words could express.  
  
 _Don't be afraid. I'll never leave you. I love you._  
  
All the things he wouldn't dare say aloud.  
  
Still, words are a particular strength of Wilson's, and he can't quite keep himself from uttering them to reassure his hesitant lover. It's only a hushed, hoarse whisper, felt as much as heard against House's skin.  
  
"Don't you know? There's only you for me."


	79. Non-Medical Mystery

"So which one do you think took it?"  
  
"Cuddy's always on my case, telling me I shouldn't take so much."  
  
"Do you really think it's like her, though? To take your Vicodin? I think she'd be worried too much about liability to mess a patient's meds -- even if you're the patient."  
  
"Maybe it was Chase. Eventually he _had_ to find some way to strike back for all the crap I give him every day."  
  
"But... the fact that he hasn't yet would sort of imply that he hasn't got the balls. And... I'd think he would start off small, not immediately go for the revenge option most likely to get him murdered."  
  
"Cameron..."  
  
"Couldn't stand to see you in pain."  
  
"...Foreman?"  
  
"...Really?"  
  
"...Good point."  
  
"..."  
  
"So... who do _you_ think would take my Vicodin?"  
  
"I don't know. What do you think is the motive?"  
  
"If it's not revenge... and it's not professional concern... maybe it's something else entirely..."  
  
"Like what? And... House... what are you doing?"  
  
"If you wanted to be sure I came by to see you before lunch, all you had to do was ask..."  
  
"House! I did not want to..."  
  
"Wilson."  
  
"What?!"  
  
"Shut up."  
  
"House, seriously, I did _not_... _mmph!_ "  
  
"..."  
  
"..."  
  
"So... no more stealing my meds, 'kay?"  
  
"Uh-huh..."  
  
"Next time you want to make out... all you have to do is ask."


	80. 100 Bottles of Vicodin on the Wall

"You know that taking that's not going to accomplish anything."  
  
"Except to keep you from combining dangerous amounts of drugs with dangerous amounts of narcotics..."  
  
"Yes... but only for the thirty seconds it'll take me to locate another bottle."  
  
"How many bottles do you have stashed around here?"  
  
"You just took the one you know about. What makes you think I'd tell you about the others? I need them."  
  
"You _need_ to stumble your way to your bed and sleep it off."  
  
"Why don't you come with me?"  
  
"..."  
  
"Come on, drunk cripple here!"  
  
"You have a cane."  
  
"Yeah. Wanna see it?"  
  
"House..."  
  
"Come on, just help me get to my room..."  
  
"Okay, okay, stop whining..."  
  
........  
  
"What are you doing? Do you have more Vicodin in there?"  
  
"There's many things someone might keep in a bedside drawer, not just... Hey! Back off!"  
  
"Let me see that..."  
  
"Wilson..."  
  
"Just let me... wait... oh... that's... not your Vicodin."  
  
"No. Vicodin don't come wrapped in cellophane. But was I wrong in thinking it might come in handy in the next ten minutes or so?"  
  
"..."  
  
"Didn't think so."


	81. Crime

"House... what are you doing?"  
  
"Looking for clues."  
  
"Clues to _what_? I'm pretty sure you're not going to find anything related to your patient's current condition in Cuddy's bedroom."  
  
"Did I say that's what the clues were for?"  
  
"House... contrary to what one might glean from your usual business methods, breaking and entering _is_ still illegal."  
  
"Cuddy's not gonna press charges."  
  
"I wouldn't be so sure. She was _really_ pissed off at the hospital earlier... and this might just be enough to..."  
  
"Cuddy's not gonna know I was ever here."  
  
"House... this is a _crime_!"  
  
"*GASP* Oh, my God."  
  
"... What?"  
  
"Shit. Wilson... you've gotta see this..."  
  
"Quit... trying to distract me..."  
  
"Seriously, Wilson, come here..."  
  
"*SIGH* What is it?"  
  
"Nothing. But now you're in, so you're an accomplice. Might as well help me look."  
  
" _House_!"  
  
"Dibs on her underwear drawer."


	82. Why Wilson Isn't a Gynecologist

House gave the attractive young blonde an unabashedly appreciative look-over as he passed her on his way into the exam room where Wilson was making hurried notes on a chart and trying not to watch her go.  
  
His face was flushed, however, and the hand that held the pen trembled slightly -- tell-tale signs of the interest he could not quite conceal. House waited to speak until the door had closed behind him.  
  
"And that, my friend, is why you are not a gynecologist."  
  
Flustered, Wilson gave him a look of wide-eyed innocence. "What... what are you...?"  
  
"Oh, come off it," House scoffed. "You should know better than to try to fool me. I _saw_ her, you know." He paused, a taunting smirk on his lips as he continued. "You're lucky you don't get sued more often for coming onto your patients, with all that boob-grabbing you have to do. I can't imagine that you'd still have your license if it was actually part of your _job_ to stick your fingers up their..."  
  
" _House_!" Wilson protested, his face so red it was nearly purple by this point. "I do _not_ make passes at my patients!"  
  
"Well, that's good to hear. Not that I believe it... but still..."  
  
Wilson's eyes narrowed and he looked at House more closely, a soft, knowing smile beginning on his lips as he started to cross the room to where House stood, leaning idly against the side of the exam table.  
  
House eyed Wilson warily as he closed the distance between them, a slow swallow visible in his throat as his eyes widened slightly at Wilson's nearness.  
  
Wilson kept his eyes locked onto House's as he placed a firm but gentle hand low on House's waist, his thumb moving in slow, teasing circles around his hip bone.  
  
"Jealous?" he murmured.  
  
House drew in a sharp breath through his nose, keeping his mouth carefully closed, though his eyes fluttered nearly shut before focusing on Wilson again, his voice hoarse and barely over a whisper.  
  
"No."  
  
Wilson's smile widened slightly as he sidled in closer, his hand shifting slowly inward from House's hip until it lightly cupped the swelling bulge in the front of his jeans.  
  
"You don't have anything to worry about..."  
  
He softly declared his faithfulness, pausing as his hand tightened slightly, causing House to bite back a soft gasp. Wilson leaned in close to whisper next to his ear, without relaxing his grip.  
  
" _This_ is why I'm not a gynecologist."


	83. Wish You Were Here

Once Wilson quit, it was only a matter of time before House quit as well.  
  
He tried to keep doing his job for a little while, tried to find the same fulfillment in his work that he'd once found -- but it just wasn't the same. He'd always told himself that his mind, his work, solving the puzzle, was the only thing he needed.  
  
Now he knew just how wrong he'd always been.  
  
Wilson had left no forwarding address, no clue as to where he might have gone when he'd left Princeton. After nearly twenty years of friendship with House, he'd learned a thing or two -- and he'd covered his tracks remarkably well.  
  
House took the money he'd saved and went on an extended vacation, trying to enjoy his leisure on some remote island whose name he couldn't quite pronounce.  
  
It wasn't much fun alone.  
  
One evening when the beach was closing before a storm, the lifeguards who were making sure that everyone was coming in found him sitting there in his beach chair, still and silent as the grave.   
  
An empty pill bottle lay on the tiny folding table beside him, pinning down a postcard with a tranquil scene not unlike the one presented by the former doctor himself. Written on the back of the card were a few simple words.  
  
 _Wilson --_  
  
This is no fun without you. Wish you were here.  
  
Whoever this 'Wilson' was, the lifeguard mused -- apparently the doctor didn't want to be around anymore, either, without him.


	84. Why?

House was caught completely off guard.  
  
All it took was a few careless words, misplaced at precisely the wrong moment, when Wilson had had enough to drink to lower his inhibitions, but not quite enough to make him pleasantly careless and giddy.  
  
An unexpectedly brutal slap across his face knocked the breath from him, and sent him toppling to his knees. He looked up at Wilson through wide, startled eyes -- only to see a fist flying toward his face, knocking him onto his face on the floor.  
  
Wilson didn't stop until House was no longer struggling to escape, but simply huddled against the side of the sofa, holding his hands up in a pitiful attempt at passive defense.  
  
Wilson was seething, ranting drunkenly in unchecked fury as he hit and kicked his best friend repeatedly, punishing him for some offense of which House was still unaware. When Wilson's strength was finally spent, he glared down at House in disgust for a long moment before moving back to sit down on the sofa again, picking up his drink as if nothing had happened.  
  
House struggled to his feet with trembling hands, finding his cane and steadying himself with an effort -- utterly in shock and numb from the unexpected violence of the assault. Hesitantly he started past the sofa, headed for the bathroom to clean himself up and try to take stock of the situation.  
  
As he passed the place where Wilson sat, he suddenly lost his balance, collapsing to the floor again, as Wilson's foot shot out to catch his cane and knock it out from under him.  
  
House stared up at Wilson in wounded disbelief, shaking his head slowly, eyes brimming with shameful tears. He could barely bring himself to speak for the hurt that seemed to choke him; but he managed a single, dumbfounded whisper.  
  
"Wilson... _why_?"  
  
Wilson shrugged carelessly, a smile nastier than any House had ever seen on his face as he answered with soft certainty.  
  
"Because it's what you deserve."  
  
House struggled to his feet, swallowing back a sob, trying to salvage what was left of his dignity as he struggled the rest of the way to the bathroom. In the doorway, however, he turned and faced his friend, a reproachful look of quiet accusation in his eyes as he softly replied.  
  
"Maybe it is. But... what makes you think _you_ deserve to be the one to give it to me?"


	85. Dangerous

It doesn’t happen very often.  
  
Wilson can go for weeks at a time being nothing but easy-going and fun and affectionate, making House feel like the most important person in his world. Despite his wary misgivings, House gradually begins to let down his guard, stops measuring his words and guarding his tongue... until, inevitably... something irreparably stupid will slip out.  
  
It might be nothing more than an appreciative comment about some new nurse they pass in the hall, or a derisive remark about Wilson's taste in television, or clothes, or women. It might be something he never would have expected to invoke Wilson's fury.   
  
Regardless of the unexpected reason, House inevitably finds himself on the receiving end of Wilson’s wrath – exploding like lightning that’s been slowly building from a quiet, static charge.  
  
If he's lucky, it'll be nothing more than a slap and a few angry, threatening words.  
  
More often... it's worse.  
  
There are times when House can't pick himself up off the floor when Wilson's finished venting his rage.   
  
There are rare times... there's only been a few... when House actually fears for his life.  
  
Sometimes, House forgets how dangerous Wilson can be.


	86. Out in the Cold

He pounds on the door again desperately, ice cold hands aching and burning from the repeated impact over the last half hour or so.  
  
He left a key over the doorjamb -- but it's not there now.  
  
He glances miserably down at his cell phone, not bothering to try Wilson again. He knows he's inside, knows he's furious with him for being so late again... and knows he wouldn't respond if House called or texted again.  
  
Wilson's brief, clear response to his last text made that perfectly clear.  
  
It read simply, _Go to hell._  
  
House pulls his coat closer around him, glancing longingly back toward the road down which the cab just disappeared. He knew enough to know that he was too drunk to drive home, so at least he'd made it here safely -- only to freeze to death in the ice and snow without any means of getting to shelter.   
  
He thought about Wilson's car, but could see from the doorway that it was locked.  
  
He pounded on the door again, calling out to his lover with a voice that was hoarse and slurred with alcohol and desperation, and he hates the frightened, pathetic way it breaks over the final word.  
  
" _Wilson_! Please..."  
  
Wilson doesn't answer, and House gives in to the throbbing ache in his leg, made worse by the cold, and sinks down onto the step. He could call someone -- but he's not sure he would survive the shame any better than the cold, if anyone else knew that Wilson had locked him out of his own apartment -- and that he _didn't_ intend to immediately break up with the oncologist and kick him out upon finally getting inside.  
  
This was out of line, cruel, and downright dangerous -- an utterly inappropriate and inexcusable response to simply being late getting home.  
  
It didn't matter.  
  
House couldn't be without Wilson, no matter what he did.  
  
Another half hour passed before the door opened behind House, and he tumbled backward into the living room. He looked up through tear-blurred, red-rimmed eyes at the cold, impassive face of the younger man.   
  
"Get in here before you freeze."  
  
He scrambles to obey, pathetically grateful for the warm comfort of his own apartment, as the tingling heat returns to his frozen limbs. But before he can even get to his feet, Wilson has disappeared into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.  
  
House makes his way to the bathroom, stalling, before finally venturing to try the doorknob. His heart sinks, as his fears are realized. He heads to the couch where he knows he'll spend the night -- once again, like so many times before in his life -- locked out and alone.


	87. Blindfold

House's eyes go wide and he's instantly shaking his head, babbling protests, when he sees the black leather strip in Wilson's hands. He tries to back away, but he's cornered and can't escape as Wilson places the blindfold over his eyes with a cold, smug smile.  
  
"Wilson, I... I don't want to do this..."  
  
He tries to pull away one last time as Wilson ties the blindfold on, and Wilson draws it away -- just long enough to deliver a blinding, sharp slap across House's face, stilling his struggles and silencing his stuttering pleas.  
  
He fastens the blindfold in place before reaching for another item, his smile widening as he imagines House's reaction if he could see the large black ball gag he's holding now. He knows it's one more thing that House wouldn't actually want to do -- but it doesn't matter now. His hands bound behind his back, House is at Wilson's mercy, and can't resist, can't stop Wilson from gagging him.  
  
In a moment, he won't even be able to scream.  
  
The blindfold is only the first in a long list of things that Wilson has wanted to do to House for a long time, but knew he'd never allow if he had the choice.  
  
Good thing he _doesn't_ have the choice anymore.  
  
"Wilson..." House's voice is a hoarse, hushed whisper. "I-I don't... you're... you're scaring me..."  
  
Wilson knows that admission is a difficult thing for House -- but he doesn't want to hear it. He presses the gag past House's unsuspecting lips, fastening it tightly behind his head despite House's efforts to escape.   
  
House is trembling now, a soft whimpering sound escaping past the gag as Wilson firmly grasps one arm and a handful of his hair and forces him roughly to his knees. House winces in pain at the impact, shaking his head pleadingly in the only expression left to him.  
  
Wilson laughs softly, pulling House's face close to his by his hair and murmuring in his ear, relishing the tremor that shakes through House with the dark realization of the truth.  
  
"You _really_ shouldn't have trusted me, House."


	88. Doing Chase

"Hey. Sorry I'm..."  
  
"You're late."  
  
"Um... yeah. That."  
  
"We had plans."  
  
"I'm... aware of that, House. I'm sorry. I had a patient that coded just as I was getting ready to leave, and I didn't really have a choice..."  
  
"So, I did Chase."  
  
"... _W-what_? You...?"  
  
"Did. Chase."  
  
"*helpless non-verbal sputtering*"  
  
"Well, I was bored. And he was eager. He's _always_ eager, and has this twisted father-transference thing going with me -- which made doing him a little bit disturbing, but whatever. Sex is sex, and you weren't here..."  
  
"You... you're making this up..."  
  
"Nope."  
  
"You'd _better_ be making this up."  
  
"Unfortunately, no."  
  
"House..."  
  
"Easy, there. _You_ might not have had any sex tonight, but I've had plenty."  
  
" _House_..."  
  
"Hey... ow... that's attached, you know..."  
  
"Shut up."  
  
"Wilson, wait a... _mmmmphhh_..."  
  
"You're _mine_ , House. I think I might need to remind you..."  
  
"*grinning* Take your best shot. I may have been spoiled for life."  
  
*ONE HOUR LATER*  
  
"So... _I_ feel better now. You?"  
  
"Depends. Did you really do Chase?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Well, then, I _will_ feel better..."  
  
"Hey! Where are you going?"  
  
"Well, I have to do him too so we'll be even..."  
  
"Okay, okay, I'm a liar. *sigh* I didn't really do Chase."  
  
"I knew it."  
  
"..."  
  
"..."  
  
"Wilson?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"I think we _should_."


	89. All Tied Up

"Um... Wilson? I'm... not so sure about this..."  
  
"You're not so _not_ sure either," Wilson pointed out with a smirk and a pointed glance in the direction of House's rather prominent erection. "If you really need to stop, you can always use your safe word." He paused, his expression hardening into steel as he brought the firm leather switch down hard across the backs of House's thighs. His voice was casual and dangerously calm as he concluded with a careless shrug.  
  
"You know... if I decide that you're allowed to talk again. Which I haven't, yet, if you'll remember."  
  
A second smack with the switch lands directly across the middle of House's exposed ass, making him bite back a choked hiss of pain.  
  
He's not quite sure how he gets into these situations.  
  
His wrists are bound over his head, fastened into leather cuffs suspended from the ceiling. His feet can touch the floor, but just barely. He's completely naked -- helpless and utterly exposed to Wilson's every whim.  
  
He casts a resentful look downward at his own weeping cock, locked tightly into a chastity device that prevents him from finding release, but does not prevent Wilson from using his arousal to torment him. A single brow quirks upward as he considers his own reaction.  
  
 _Apparently... I love it_.  
  
"Are you going to disobey me again, House? You may answer."  
  
House shakes his head, biting his lip for a moment before murmuring with as much reverence as he can muster, "No. No, Wilson."  
  
"Good."   
  
Unexpectedly, Wilson brings the switch down across the backs of his thighs again, and House can't hold back a sharp yelp of surprised pain -- even as his cock twitches within its leather and metal confines.  
  
Wilson moves around in front of him, grinning wickedly as he traces two fingers slowly back and forth along House's shaft, through the gaps in the chastity device. House tries not to move, not to pull away or push forward, but it's next to impossible. Just when he can no longer restrain himself and thrusts his hips slightly forward -- Wilson withdraws his hand.  
  
"Don't worry," he says softly in response to House's choked whimper of wordless desperation. "You'll get to come..."  
  
He reaches down abruptly to grasp House through the device again, his smug smile widening as House arches helplessly forward into his touch.  
  
"... when you beg for it."


	90. Skiing Holiday

Laughing, soaked through with snow, they come in from the cold into the cheery warmth of the lodge's common room.  
  
Wilson leans on his partner for support, breathless with laughter over the lewd but undeniably hilarious comment he just made about one of the ski instructors they passed coming up the hill. House lurches under his weight, but easily recovers and shoves him back good-naturedly, a wide grin on his face, his eyes dancing with humor.  
  
"Ugh, get off," he grumbles, rolling his eyes as Wilson sinks into one of the overstuffed sofas around the fire. House sits down beside him, smirking as he adds, "No wonder I beat you down the hill. You need to take off a few pounds."  
  
Wilson doesn't mind his gentle jibing. He's just glad that they're here, together, and happy.  
  
House's infarction the previous year had almost claimed his life -- and then, once they were fairly certain that he was going to survive, had nearly claimed his mobility as well.   
  
Wilson was grateful that he had happened to overhear a conversation between Lisa Cuddy, House's doctor, and his girlfriend at the time, Stacy, about what they planned to do once he was unconscious and unable to make his own medical decisions. He had immediately warned House, and House had demanded the papers to end Stacy's position as his medical proxy on the spot.  
  
As a result, House and Stacy had broken up, and Wilson and House had ended up together.  
  
All in all -- it was a tremendous tragedy averted.  
  
**********************  
  
"Wilson? _Wilson_!"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Wake up. You're dozing -- and right in the middle of my personal crisis. Really, I'm wounded. I was trying to tell you about my plan to make Stacy leave her husband for me. Or you know... at least have an incredibly hot extramarital affair with me. Either works."  
  
Wilson sighed and tried to focus on the conversation at hand, instead of his momentary daydream of what might have been.


	91. Feather

His entire body is stretched taut before his captor, wrists and ankles bound in leather and fastened to the bedposts. He wriggles uselessly in a vain attempt to escape his bonds, but they're too strong. He's blindfolded, unable even to see the type or direction of the next assault.  
  
He swallows hard to moisten his dry mouth, his heart pounding in his throat as he feels the bed depress beside him and knows that his tormentor has just come within reach -- if it was within his power to reach at all at the moment.  
  
He can feel the heat of his captor's body close to him, the smooth brush of hot, dry skin against his own, and then the weight as he is straddled, his apprehensions and excitement intensifying with the additional restraint across his hips.  
  
"Wanna play a game?"  
  
"I don't wanna play _this_ game," he grumbles, though his voice is trembling slightly. "It's getting boring."  
  
There's a smirk in the other man's voice as he leans in close to murmur dark and low in his ear.  
  
"That was the wrong thing to say..."  
  
House flinches slightly, his heart rate accelerating as a firm hand trails slowly down his bare chest, tweaking a nipple on its way down with just enough force to be slightly painful.  
  
"I want to play... and I'm in charge at the moment... so I want you to guess... what I'm going to do to you next."  
  
House groans, torn between being unbelievably aroused and unbelievably freaked out by this situation in which he's found himself. He swallows hard, trying to catch his breath enough to sound passably steady when he responds.  
  
"Hot wax?"  
  
"Eh, _so_ last week."  
  
" _So_ gay..."  
  
"Yeah, aren't you glad?"   
  
Another sharp pinch accompanies the teasing words, effectively reminding House that he's not in any position to be mocking at the moment. He gasps softly, his back arching into the touch as he swallows and struggles to guess again and get the game back on track.  
  
"We haven't tried electricity yet."  
  
That's just freaky enough to be too freaky for Wilson, and House thinks he might be able to manipulate his way out of this yet -- until Wilson's next words sent a thrill of fear down his spine.  
  
"Please. Child's play. You can try all you won't, but you won't guess it... so I might as well go ahead and show you..."  
  
"Wilson... wait..."  
  
Wilson doesn't wait.  
  
House draws in a sharp breath at the sensation that follows Wilson's words -- a light brush of something soft and tingling along the line where his stomach meets his hips. He tries to pull away from the intensity of the feeling it creates, squirming uselessly under Wilson's weight.  
  
Wilson chuckles softly as House bites his lip, trying to hold back the reflexive sounds forming there, and just intensifies his efforts, trailing the torture device lightly over House's ribcage, then down to trace his swollen, weeping erection, then once more to the sensitive skin of his stomach.  
  
Finally, House can no longer hold back -- and a high, vaguely musical sound escapes his lips.  
  
At least, _Wilson_ thinks it's musical.  
  
He laughs himself, showing no mercy as he continues his torture despite House's protests.  
  
Who knew that House was _ticklish_?


	92. Secret Sins

Most people would consider Dr. James Wilson a good man.  
  
Most people would consider him a saint.  
  
Most people only see the dedicated oncologist who works so hard to save, or at least improve, the lives of his doomed patients -- mostly children. They see the long hours spent at the hospital, the personal touches to the care he provides that mean so much to the ones he's caring for.  
  
What they don't see is the weary, frustrated man who goes out drinking with his friend -- his _best_ friend -- his best friend whom he _knows_ has been secretly in love with him for the last several years -- and then goes home with him, pretending to be a lot drunker than he actually is while coming onto him.  
  
They don't hear the cruel comments he makes on a fairly regular basis, or the hurt look in which those cutting words result.  
  
House sees those things clearly. He knows his best friend is no saint.  
  
It's the subtle things, the secret sins, that even House doesn't know about -- the fact that Wilson comes on to him after those nights out simply to watch him struggle with the temptation to take advantage -- or that Wilson spends time thinking of sharp, witty comebacks with the singular goal of achieving that stunned, wounded expression they cause on House's face.  
  
Those flaws, those sins... only Wilson knows about.  
  
Most people would consider Dr. James Wilson a good man.  
  
Most people don't know him very well.


	93. Only One Night

It was only one night.  
  
House doesn't know why he's let it come to mean so much to him.  
  
They had both been drinking. House was lonely -- he was _always_ lonely -- and Wilson had just had a huge fight with his wife. They took a cab back to House's apartment, and then let the cab go without either of them remembering that Wilson still needed a ride home.  
  
At least -- they told themselves they'd forgotten.  
  
Certainly there were no other reasons for the oversight.  
  
Watching television became drunken fondling on the couch, and drunken fondling on the couch became sloppy, desperate sex in the bed -- and both men fell asleep almost immediately, still entangled in each other's arms.  
  
The next morning, House was hopeful.  
  
Wilson's reaction was less optimistic.  
  
His expression was solemn and troubled as he sat down on the edge of the bed where House still lay, meeting his gaze with earnest, apologetic eyes.  
  
"This shouldn't have happened."  
  
No four words had ever hurt more.  
  
"We'd both been drinking, and... and I was... vulnerable, and... my judgment was... off. I'm sorry. Can we just...?"   
  
He shakes his head as if at a loss, but House knows he just doesn't want to say it. The words make his throat ache, but he forces them out anyway for Wilson's sake.  
  
"... forget it ever happened."  
  
Wilson gives him a nervous, grateful smile and nods, letting out a deep, shaky breath.  
  
"Yeah. Thanks. I knew you'd understand."  
  
He gets up and heads for the door, glancing back in the doorway, his expression serious.  
  
"It was only one night."  
  
And then he is gone.  
  
House tries not to let it hurt him so much, but he can't help it. He tries to convince himself that Wilson is right, and this is the best way to handle the situation. They would never work as an actual couple. They'd break up and the friendship would be over as well as any other sort of relationship. It was a mistake.  
  
It _was_ only one night.  
  
But it's a night that's changed House forever.


	94. Lying to Protect You

Cuddy asks me what happened to my face.  
  
I tell her I slipped on the icy sidewalk outside.  
  
She believes me.  
  
Even if I told her the truth -- if I didn't love you enough to lie to protect you -- she probably wouldn't believe the truth. You're the one that everyone respects and admires -- the one that's generous and benevolent to even be my friend in the first place.  
  
If I'd hit you back, and someone knew -- _I'd_ likely be the one in jail.  
  
Neither of us is -- because I won't say a word.  
  
You've spent decades building this reputation of yours, this career that means so much to you. An accusation like this, with the kind of physical evidence you've left on my body over and over during the past few months, could destroy you.  
  
I love you too much to let that happen.  
  
You meet me in the cafeteria, and your face falls when you're reminded of what happened last night. I drink in the guilt and regret in your eyes, soaking in the sweet evidence that you really _do_ care -- really _are_ sorry.   
  
You didn't mean to do it.  
  
You touch my cheek, and I try not to flinch. You don't mean to hurt me. There are tears in your eyes as you brush your knuckles gently over the bruise, shaking your head and swallowing back a sob.  
  
"I'm so sorry," you whisper. "I love you, House. I would never hurt you on purpose. You have to know that... please tell me you know that..."  
  
I nod, wanting to ease your pain at causing my pain.  
  
"I know," I reply. "It's okay... it's okay..."  
  
The look of relief on your face as you blink away the tears, shoulders shaking with the tears you're trying so hard to repress, is worth lying to protect you.  
  
I know I'd do it again if I have to.  
  
And I know that I'll have to.


	95. Secret Pain

He hides it all day long, from everyone.  
  
His team, his employer, his patients -- no one sees past the cane to the deeper pain that weighs him down as he carries it through each day.  
  
He's proud of the excellent job he does of hiding it.  
  
At the end of the day, he collapses on the sofa, absently rubbing his aching thigh and losing himself in mindless entertainment. It doesn't have to be smart or witty or even good; it just has to be enough to distract him and fill his mind, leaving no room for the painful thoughts that plague his mind so often.  
  
There's no knock on the door, simply the click of the key in the door, before Wilson steps inside, carrying a box of pizza and a six pack of beer. He crosses the room and sits down beside House without a word.  
  
Wilson knows.  
  
House knows that he knows -- and it doesn't bother him.  
  
In fact, it eases his pain just to sit there with Wilson and know that for the first time in the course of his day, he doesn't have to pretend. Wilson sees through his facade.  
  
And yet, he's still here.  
  
The weight of his secret pain gets a little easier to bear when there's someone to share it with.


	96. Open Secret

"House, can I see you for a minute?"  
  
Wilson peeks around the door, barely waiting for a nod before continuing down the hallway to his own office. House rises from his chair and heads toward the door, winking as he explains.  
  
"He had a hot date last night, and I'm needing some good fodder for my fantasies. I'll be back in ten minutes... or..." He glances pointedly at his watch and adds, "... make that thirty..."  
  
"Don't you already know all about Wilson's hot date?" Thirteen asks before he can leave, false innocence in her voice. "Weren't you there?"  
  
House raised a single brow, taking in the knowing glances exchanged by his team. He slowly steps back into the room, studying their faces as he tries to guess what's going on.  
  
"I'm not _that_ big a stalker. I draw the line at watching my best friend have sex."  
  
"But not at having sex with him," Taub concludes, giving House a pointed look. "That's clearly on the safe side of the line."  
  
House is, for once, speechless.  
  
"Oh, come on!" Foreman rolls his eyes, finally speaking up when the frustration gets to be too much. "This is ridiculous. _Everyone knows_ that you two are a _thing_. It's not this big secret anymore. The only secret is that _everybody already knows_."


	97. Resurrection

By the time House realizes that Wilson is trying to break him, he's so far gone that it doesn't matter.  
  
It's too late.  
  
A subtly disparaging choice of words here or there, apparently well-intentioned advice that only serves to make House feel more pathetic and useless than ever... every seemingly innocent incident makes more and more dependent upon Wilson, and bring him farther under the younger man's control.  
  
Wilson alternates between cold and distant and punishing, and tender and sweet and comforting, until House doesn't know what to think... doesn't know what he deserves... doesn't even know what he wants anymore.  
  
Wilson's gradually withheld his Vicodin from him during this time as well, making it so hard on him that House would rather deal with the pain than with Wilson's wrath.  
  
On the day he realizes how much he's changed -- _how much Wilson's changed him_ \-- he is quiet and withdrawn, trying to work up the nerve to say what he wants to say.  
  
Just as Wilson is about to walk out the door, House stops him with a single, soft word.  
  
"Why?"  
  
Wilson instantly senses the weight of the simple question, perceives its meaning immediately. He considers a moment, calm and thoughtful when at last he responds.  
  
"Sometimes... you have to completely destroy what you were... in order to become something better."  
  
House watches him go in silence, appearing to accept Wilson's explanation. It's only after he's gone that House murmurs a desolate argument that only he will hear. He's long ago lost the nerve to say these words to Wilson's face.  
  
"Who says you get to decide what's better?"


	98. Backhand

Wilson looked up from the paper he was reading as Chase stormed past him into the lounge, stalking furiously to the counter and slamming the jar of peanut butter down onto it, wrenching the lid from the jar with far more force than was necessary.  
  
"Tough day?"   
  
Wilson's tone was mild, curious without prying, as he rose from the couch and moved around it to stand across the counter from Chase.  
  
"I'm through covering for him."  
  
Wilson felt his blood run cold at those words, and the undeniable threat they carried. Still, he couldn't help but ask for clarification.  
  
"Covering for who?"  
  
Chase gave him a disgusted look of knowing accusation as he muttered, "You know who. The same person we've all been covering for for the past few months. But I'm through. House is going down for his crimes -- and I won't be going down with him."  
  
 _Must be nice to know..._  
  
Wilson swallowed hard, frowning as he opened his mouth, forming his words with caution.  
  
"All he's trying to do is manage his pain. He might not be doing a very good job of it, but he's not hurting anyone."  
  
Chase let out a bitter laugh, one hand rising to gingerly touch his jaw as he gave Wilson a pointed look.  
  
"Except me."  
  
Wilson's eyes widened with shock, and Chase's lips twisted into a grim smile.  
  
"That's right. House hit me. He's not just managing his pain, Wilson." Chase slowly walked around the table until he was standing face to face with Wilson, his words slow and measured. "He's a _junkie_. He doesn't care what he does or who he hurts as long as he gets his next fix. I could risk my career for him, risk everything, yeah... but frankly..." Chase's mouth twisted into a disgusted sneer. "... he's just not worth it."  
  
The sharp backhand blow that fell across Chase's cheek took Wilson as much by surprise as Chase. The younger man stumbled back against the counter, his hand instinctively going to his doubly bruised jaw as he slowly straightened, giving Wilson an indignant, outraged glare.  
  
Wilson didn't really care what Chase thought at the moment.  
  
He took an intimidating step closer to Chase, his mouth set in a grim, taut line.  
  
"He's worth _twenty_ of you, Chase. He's saved more lives in the last year than you will in the entirety of your career. If certain sacrifices have to be made, trust me when I say that those sacrifices _are_ worth it."  
  
Wilson's voice lowered, and Chase couldn't help but shrink back slightly as Wilson took a measured step nearer to him.  
  
"And the next time you talk about him like that... I'll do a lot worse than slap you in the face."  
  
Without another word, Wilson turned and stalked out of the room... leaving Chase shaking his head in disgust and rubbing his twice-abused jaw.


	99. Lupus

"Wilson... why are you lying in that hospital bed? You're not trying to take _my_ part, are you? 'Cause almost dying is usually _my_ bid for attention of choice."  
  
"House... um... this isn't just a... bid for attention..."  
  
"You sound terrible! What the hell happened to you? Were you in an accident or something?"  
  
"No. I'm... I'm sick."  
  
"... You're talking... more than a bad case of the flu, here, aren't you?"  
  
"Yeah. It's... it's bad. I'm... I'm dying..."  
  
"No, you're not. Don't be an idiot. I'll figure out what it is, and..."  
  
"They already know what it is... and there's no cure."  
  
"It's not... cancer?"  
  
"No, House, cancer isn't contagious. *sigh*"  
  
"An STD? Because you had to know _that_ was just waiting to happen..."  
  
"No."  
  
"..."  
  
"..."  
  
"Then... then, what?"  
  
"It's... it's lupus."  
  
"..."  
  
"House... why are you _laughing_?!"  
  
"..."  
  
"You find my impending death that hilarious?"  
  
"No, Wilson. *snicker* You're not dying. This isn't even real."  
  
"Denial won't help anyone right now, House. I... I kind of need you..."  
  
"Wilson... lupus is treatable. You don't get diagnosed with it one day and die of it the next."  
  
"... Oh."  
  
"Besides... it's _never_ lupus. Therefore, this can't be real. Therefore... I'm dream-"  
  
"House? _House!_ "  
  
"Wha-what?"  
  
"You were talking in your sleep. Are you okay?"  
  
"Yeah. And so are you."


	100. The Gunman

"No... no, don't... _stop_!"  
  
"House! House, wake up! You're dreaming; wake up!"  
  
"Wha-what happened?"  
  
"You were having some kind of... nightmare. What were you dreaming about?"  
  
"... Nothing."  
  
"Hey, no, don't just roll over and ignore me. Seriously, House. That must have been some kind of nightmare."  
  
"..."  
  
" _House_."  
  
*dramatic sigh* "Fine. I was in my office, leading the differential, when all of a sudden I looked down and, to my shock and dismay, realized that I'd forgotten to put on my pants that morning. It was just starting to take a turn toward a decidedly non-nightmarish place when you so rudely awakened me."  
  
"Fine. You're welcome, House. I'm going back to sleep..."  
  
"..."  
  
"..."  
  
"Wilson?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"What were you doing... that day when the lunatic came into my office and shot me?"  
  
"Um..."  
  
"I mean, I realize I'm not like... JFK or anything, but... I thought you might remember..."  
  
"I was making my rounds on the oncology ward."  
  
"Yeah. Just like every day. Good guess."  
  
"I was with Katie Morris, informing her that her second round of chemo was as effective as we'd hoped, and scheduling her for her third. She told me that it would have to be delayed a little because of her son's school play. Is that detailed enough for you?"  
  
"..."  
  
"I couldn't forget that day if I tried, House."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"..."  
  
"Then... what makes you think _I_ did?"  
  
"... House?"  
  
"Every single time... I know what he's going to do before he does it. I try to tell my team but they completely ignore me. He shoots them all, and then takes his time with me..."  
  
"In... in your dream?"  
  
"No, Wilson, this is how it really happened. They just filed a completely fake report in my chart just for your benefit so you'd find it when you went looking through my records and not know what really happened."  
  
"Okay, I just wanted to be sure, there's no need to get... Just... go on. What happens next?"  
  
"The thing that sucks about being a doctor... is _knowing_ exactly where you could shoot someone... in order to kill them the most slowly..."  
  
"God, House..."  
  
"And knowing... just what things someone could say... if they wanted to... to make you _want_ to die..."  
  
"House... I had no idea... I.. I'm sorry..."  
  
"You seem to think I... plan these near-death experiences or something... just to torture you. What you seem to forget is... they're not much fun to go through, either."  
  
"House... are you...?"  
  
"Shut up, Wilson."  
  
"Hey... c'mere..."  
  
"Ugh, get off me..."  
  
"Shhh... come here, House... it's okay... it's over..."  
  
"No. It's not. And... it might not ever be."


	101. Amnesia

He’s been having lapses – blackouts – lost time he can’t account for.  
  
And when he awakens, he has the nagging sensation that he’s forgotten something desperately important.  
  
He can’t tell Wilson. He’d think he was losing his mind.  
  
He tries to keep his friend close, though – to never go more than a day or two without making plans with Wilson. He hates to think what might happen if he blacked out, and something actually happened – and no one knew to look for him..  
  
And no one else would think to look.  
  
He’s preoccupied, constantly worried and stressed – and never notices that Wilson always seems to be the first person he sees when he “awakens”. Wilson’s been cooking for him, taking care of the apartment, and though he hasn’t said anything, House can’t help but wonder if he knows.  
  
It never crosses his mind that he might actually have something to do with it.


	102. Coma

The first thing he sees upon waking is Wilson's face.  
  
Wilson's sitting in the chair beside the bed, a calm, almost blank expression on his face. He looks up with mild interest when he sees that House is awake.   
  
"She won't ever wake up, you know."  
  
House immediately understands, and a chill runs down his spine. His voice is hoarse and won't seem to cooperate as he tries to find the words to apologize.  
  
"You're going to be just fine -- and she'll never wake up. You killed her. Now, tell me, House... does that sound fair to you?"  
  
House shakes his head, blinking back tears of regret and loss, wondering why the words won't seem to come. Maybe it's a residual effect of the DBS, and the resulting coma from which he's just awakening.  
  
Wilson rises from his chair, and House hasn't really put together the idea that he might actually be a threat -- until he sees the hypodermic needle in his hand. House opens his mouth to protest, but Wilson plunges the needle into his IV line, then quickly pockets it and covers House's mouth with his hand, holding him still and silent as whatever drug he just gave him drains into his system. Wilson's voice begins to fade out as Hosue begins to lose consciousness again.  
  
"No, House," Wilson says in a soft, decisive voice. "That's _not_ fair... and I can't let it happen."


	103. Catatonia

House sits on the floor, his back braced against the side of the bed – staring at the spot a few feet away where _it_ happened.  
  
He still can’t _believe_ that it happened.  
  
He’s trembling violently, staring through wide, vacant eyes, his knees drawn up in front of him and held there by his shaking arms. Wilson comes back into the room – freshly showered and dressed and ready for work. House flinches when he comes near, instinctively holding up a hand to protect himself.  
  
“Oh, please, House, like I’m gonna hit you or something,” Wilson sneers, rolling his eyes as he passes him and goes to the closet, taking out a tie. “You act as if you didn’t actually _want_ that – and we both know you did.”  
  
House almost imperceptibly shakes his head, wide eyes staring at the floor again – nearly catatonic – as Wilson gets his things and leaves without a word of apology or reassurance. A pleading, desperate litany fills his mind, though he knows it’s nothing more than a comforting lie.  
  
 _It’s not real… it didn’t happen… it’s not real… it didn’t happen…_


	104. Busted

“What the hell is going on here?”  
  
The two men on the bed scrambled apart, staring up with trapped, guilty expressions at the man standing in the doorway.  
  
“This… isn’t what it…” the PI stammered, swallowing hard as he removed his hand from the other man’s bare chest. He grimaced as he relented and says, “Okay, it’s exactly what it looks like… but…”  
  
“I hired you to watch him and see if he was lonely or not – not keep him from getting lonely!”  
  
“I-I know, and I’m…”  
  
“Wait a second!” Lucas turned anxious, guilty eyes toward the man on the bed beside him, who sat up and gave him an indignant look. “ _I_ hired you! What is he talking about?”  
  
“Please, House,” Wilson spoke up from the doorway, freeing Lucas of the burden of explaining. “I made him in about five minutes, and I’ve been screwing with you ever since. Your PI’s a double agent.”  
  
House stared at Wilson in shock for a moment – then grinned, clearly pleased with what Wilson had done. Wilson’s glare slowly, reluctantly faded into a matching smirk, as he took a few slow, measured steps closer to the bed.  
  
“Um… maybe I’d better be going…” Lucas mumbled as he scrambled backward off the other side of the bed.  
  
House never took his eyes from Wilson’s, as his friend approached him, a look in his eyes like a predatory jungle cat. His voice was soft, distracted.  
  
“Yeah. You do that.”  
  
Certain that his services were no longer required, Lucas quietly made his way to the door.  
  
These two were going to be just fine without him.


	105. Bourbon

It only happened once.  
  
A single, accidental overstep -- completely the fault of the bourbon, and not at all due to any private desires Wilson might have had prior to that fateful night. House had thought about pushing him away – had actually intended to, thought that was what he was doing – until he realized all at once that he was actually returning the kiss. Of course, before it could go any farther, House stopped Wilson and got him settled on the sofa for the night.  
  
He wasn’t even sure if Wilson remembered it the following morning.  
  
At any rate, the next time they hung out at House’s apartment, he made sure that they had plenty of bourbon.


	106. Recreation

House doesn’t really get a lot of recreation.  
  
That works out well for Chase, who’s trying to balance his job, his relationship with Cameron, and the new demands of his not-boss on his time, now that Wilson’s out of the picture – and who knows how long that will last.  
  
Chase hopes it doesn’t last very much longer.  
  
The occasional bowling match… a night out at a bar once a week or so – it’s not really all that much to ask… for now.   
  
Chase knows it won’t end there.  
  
He and House aren’t really all that close yet.  
  
Chase doesn’t think he wants to know what types of recreation House might expect from him if he ever gets as close to him as Wilson once was.


	107. Stereo System

“Okay. Where is it?”  
  
“Where’s what?”  
  
“Don’t screw around with me, Wilson. You know exactly what.”  
  
“I’m not… House, what are you talking about?”  
  
“Okay, fine. Whatever. I’ll give you back your DVD player. Just tell me where it is.”  
  
“You have my DVD player? I was wondering what happened to it… Wait. Do you have my CDs, too?”  
  
“Actually, yes – not that they do me any good without the stereo. So I give. Give it back.”  
  
“You’re missing your stereo?”  
  
“Duh, Wilson. What did you think I was talking about?”  
  
“I… had no idea. I already told you that.”  
  
“…Then… what the hell happened to my stereo system?”  
  
“House… have you considered the fact that someone might have actually broken into your apartment and stolen it?”  
  
“Well, yeah, but at the time I was assuming said someone was you…”  
  
“Or, I don’t know… maybe someone you owed money to came by and took it, because you don’t pay your debts…”  
  
“I do so pay my debts! The important ones, anyway…”  
  
“Well, House, be careful! Maybe you should get out of there until you’re sure what happened. What if someone broke in and they’re still in the apartment?”  
  
“… Shit.”  
  
“Are you outside yet?”  
  
“Yeah. I’d better hang up and call the cops, hang on…”  
  
“Well, wait a second. Maybe there’s no need. Maybe… someone just decided to take it and hold it for ransom until you gave back all the stuff you’ve ‘borrowed’ over the last few months…”  
  
“…”  
  
“…”  
  
“I hate you.”


	108. Sedative

He should feel relieved.  
  
After months of loneliness, Wilson has finally returned, surrendering to the inevitable force that continually draws them together, although they both know they’d be better off without each other. Wilson didn’t quite apologize – but he’s here, and that means something, doesn’t it?  
  
All it means is that they’re one day closer to the next time he runs for his life.  
  
And no matter what – House can’t allow that to happen.  
  
He can’t lose him again.  
  
Wilson should have been suspicious when he volunteered to cook – but he wasn’t. House knows the food isn’t good. He’s no cook – and the charred taste should cover up the bitterness of the sedatives.  
  
When this meal is over, House will finally have the peace of knowing that Wilson will never leave him again.


	109. Textures

All around him is nothing but darkness.  
  
Wilson doesn't speak, and as hard as House tries to hear what his lover is doing, he's far too quiet about it to give him any clue.  
  
There's nothing to focus on besides the way Wilson is making him _feel_.  
  
His wrists twist helplessly against the rough leather straps that bind him to the bed, relishing the sting as the unyielding restraints bite into his skin.  
  
The sheets beneath him provide a sweet contrast, soft and satin-smooth, placed on the bed by Wilson for this special event between them. House writhes slowly against the fabric, enjoying the feel of it against his skin.  
  
A stinging slap against his good thigh brings him to stillness, but even now, Wilson does not speak aloud his warning.  
  
The light blow is more than warning enough.  
  
House is relieved to lose himself in sensation for a change -- to allow the feelings he holds back at all other times to pour out of him, drawn out by the overload of sensory pleasure and pain which Wilson has become so expert in doling out.


	110. Split Personality

Dissociative identity disorder.  
  
House knows Wilson doesn't actually have it... but sometimes he wonders.  
  
Most of the time, Wilson is just... _Wilson_.  
  
He's loving and attentive and funny and sarcastic and everything that House wants and needs him to be -- everything that made him fall in love with him.  
  
Then... there are the other times.  
  
The moment Wilson walks through the door, House feels as if he's dealing with a completely different person. He has no idea what might have happened at work, what failure or disappointment has left Wilson in this dark, foul mood; he just knows that things are not going to end well for him these nights.  
  
He tries his best to be quiet and inoffensive at these times -- but he inevitably fails. Some misinterpreted comment or accidental insult leaves his lips, and in an instant everything changes.  
  
He does his best to weather the storm, and if he's lucky, makes it out with nothing more than a couple of fresh bruises and a freshly wounded psyche.  
  
Most times, he's not so lucky.  
  
All he can do is do his best to survive it, and wait for the time when this stranger will retreat once more into the darkness from whence he came, and the man he loves will return to him again.


	111. The First Punch

The first time it happened, House knew it was really his fault.  
  
He should have known that the topic of Wilson's crazy, homeless brother was off limits.  
  
The comment slipped from his mouth before he could think to filter his words. It wasn't as if he made a habit of filtering his words, anyway -- especially not around Wilson.  
  
Apparently, this was different.  
  
The blow sent him staggering backward into the wall, and in the next moment Wilson was in his face, pressing in close and leaving him no escape as he snarled furiously into his face.  
  
"Don't you _ever_ say anything like that again!"  
  
The next morning, Wilson apologized, begging for forgiveness, and House gratefully forgave him, just relieved to have things back to normal.  
  
He told himself that it was just a momentary reaction of temper. He told himself that Wilson had a right to his anger; House had genuinely been completely out of line.  
  
He told himself that it would never happen again.  
  
He was wrong.


	112. Challenge

Wilson stops short in the hallway just beside the stairwell at the loud series of thuds he hears from just beyond the door. He frowns with curiosity and alarm, turning and opening the door into the stairwell.  
  
He isn’t sure whether to be amused or alarmed by the sight that meets his eyes.  
  
House is lying on the landing in a heap of tangled limbs, his cane half hidden beneath him. He looks up at Wilson – and then abruptly looks away in embarrassment, raising one hand to cover his face.   
  
When he draws that hand away, frowning at it, and Wilson sees that it is wet with blood – it no longer seems even a little bit funny.   
  
Wilson rushes forward, crouching beside House and pulling his hand down to inspect the cut on his brow.   
  
“Let me see…”  
  
House shoves his hand away irritably, jerking his head back. “I’m fine.”  
  
“You’re _bleeding_!” Wilson protests, incredulous. “House – don’t be a moron.”  
  
House relents, sullen as Wilson inspects the wound. “Sure you don’t wanna run and get your polaroid first? Take a blackmail picture you can use for payback, since you decided not to use the book?”  
  
Wilson draws back to meet House’s eyes, solemn and patient, his voice strangely soft with concern. “House – if I wouldn’t use the _book_ to get back at you, I’m sure as hell not gonna use _this_.”  
  
House falls silent, subdued under the weight of Wilson’s affectionate confession. He is quiet and pensive as Wilson carefully helps him to his feet, then quickly checks the hall to make sure no one’s around before returning to help him to the door. House doesn’t speak up about what’s on his mind until they’ve reached the safety of his office. Wilson is almost out the door when he is stopped by House’s quiet, disbelieving statement.  
  
“I posted porno posters of you all over the hospital.”  
  
Wilson sighs. “I know.”  
  
“And this is two opportunities you’ve just passed up to get back at me. Why?” House demands.  
  
Wilson waits a moment before turning to face him with a teasing smile and a dismissive little snort.  
  
“Please. It’s no fun if it’s not a little bit of a challenge.”  
  
Wilson leaves, and House stands there a little while, lost in his own thoughts. After a few minutes, he sits down at his desk and picks up the phone.   
  
“Yeah, those posters in the lobby? I need those taken down.”


End file.
